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wisechoosin · 9 days ago

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serve & protect | sylus

— summary: you’ve stood dutifully by his side for years. seen him at his worst, not once letting that side of him deter you. can you blame him for craving more than your loyalty? — cw: royalty au, king sylus, femme reader, knight/bodyguard reader, mutual pining, marking, restraints, sexual tension, slow burn, sylus isn’t a normal king, this isn’t a medieval setting, there are cars and indoor plumbing ‘round here, reader has hair for the sake of plot — notes: a reimagining of something i wrote a few years ago. heavily inspired by final fantasy xv & the beast within (2024). tysm for reading! [ prologue ] — now playing: tender strength - yu-peng chan, hoyo-mix

Willing His Majesty to behave and him actually doing so are two foreign points on a map.

It’s kind of your fault, really.

You almost don’t. Nearly preserve your aloofness, your decorum. But then you do let your formalities slip for the briefest second, and that’s what heralds this mess.

A traitorous sigh slips past your lips, summoning the attention of your wintry-haired charge.

Warmth pours throughout your person, a prickly spike of embarrassment clotting your veins. You stiffen, staring at the dark, heavy curtains shielding the dining hall from the sun’s brilliant spill. Try to ignore how your skin tingles beneath the curious study of your king. How those scarlet eyes crinkle mirthfully, wittingly, and you know all too well no good will come from that look.

He’s in a playful mood, isn’t he? And you’re about to serve as his court jester.

“Are you alright, dear friend?” he intones, loud enough for only you to hear, ignoring the monotonous prattle of his guest across the table.

His voice curls around your brain, seeping through the folds of it. You straighten, arms stiffly folded behind you, quietly clearing your throat to ward off the spell of dizziness threatening to take hold. Curse him for sounding so devastatingly hot. For being so terribly distracting, so unfairly handsome.

You murmur an apology, not once taking your eyes off the far wall to look at him. To do so would be dangerous. Get you into more trouble. You hope by ignoring him, he’ll leave you be, but—

Well, His Majesty is a stubborn man, and once he gets going, there’s no stopping him.

He fiddles with a fork on the dining table with long, skillful fingers. Smooths out the little wrinkles forming in the tablecloth, adjusting himself in his wing-backed seat into an uninterested slouch. “You’ve been awfully huffy today. Are you bored?”

A little, you inwardly reply. You don’t care much for politics. For these fickle conversations of wealth, alliances, and nobility. You merely follow orders, keeping your opinions to yourself unless they’re explicitly requested.

Being a knight proves to be much more entertaining than serving as a tactician or advisor. At least you can keep your hands and feet busy instead of rotting away at a desk, ripping out your hair and fretting over the intricacies of running an entire nation.

You remain quiet, tuning out His Majesty’s attempts to get you to break character.

But, as mentioned before, your king is a persistent man.

He sighs, slipping further down in his chair. Props his temple on his knuckles, an ankle resting on the pocket of his knee whilst the free set of fingers drum on the chair’s arm. “I don’t blame you if you are. She’s not very entertaining, is she? Nor is she very bright.”

You snort despite yourself. Quickly remember your decorum, a scowl twisting up your lips. Your eyes shoot to your wayward king. “Majesty!” you admonish on a whispered yell.

A smirk pulls at his lips. He playfully narrows his eyes at you from behind the shelter of his hand. Has you right where he wants you, feeding into his childish games. Just like old times.

Your staring contest, however, is short-lived when the sharp click of a teacup meeting its saucer echoes through the stilled dining hall.

“I’m sorry,” quips a voice doused in vitriol from the table’s other end, causing your attention to snap to its source. “Am I interrupting something?”

The Queen of Universum ingests the pair of you with sharp, mead-infused eyes, vexation tugging at her red-painted lips. Like two scolded children, you straighten, King Sylus sitting up in his seat with a brilliantly fake smile.

“Of course not. Please, continue with your monologuing,” he says with a theatrical flourish of his fingers. He would roll his eyes if he could; you just know it.

You disguise a laugh as a cough, piping up when the queen’s glare snaps to you. You try not to bristle beneath the weight she carries. Beneath the thin stretch of her lips. She doesn’t like you very much. Of course, you don’t care for her, either.

She’s made it perfectly clear that she views you as a threat to her plans—marrying her daughter off to your king to forge an alliance between your countries, to spread her family’s reign. No room for love. She’s mentioned more than once that your familiarity with the king is inappropriate, a threat to his crown. How scandalous it would be for him to take you as his bride instead of someone with noble blood.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fingers curling into a fist at your back until your nails bite unforgivingly into your palm.

Like you don’t already grapple with the notion every time he touches you or smiles a little too charmingly in your direction.

You’re not fit to be a contender for his heart; not fit to be a queen.

Her eyes finally slip away from you, refocusing on the center of your musings. Your relief is short-lived as an impish smile rounds her lips. You swallow thickly, the queen’s body language boding danger.

“Is it truly necessary for your lapdog to be here? Her presence is spoiling my meal.”

You blink rapidly. Incredulously, mouth spilling open.

Lap—

Lapdog?

I’m sorry, what?

If you had hackles, they would raise. Instead, your nostrils flare, the tendons in your neck pulling, jaw set in a rigid line. An omniscient smirk cants the queen’s lips. She knows just how to creep beneath your skin, how to wrap her claws around your pride and pull it apart.

How dare she compare you to a bloody dog! You’re loyal, yes. At His Majesty’s beck and call. His shield. Have been for years. But to be compared to an animal, of all things—

He feels the malice sloughing off your skin in waves. Eyes you warily in his peripheral before raising a hand to quell your silent rage.

“Down, girl,” he teases, and you glower at him.

It seems he also wants to play along with these dog jokes.

Leaning forward, your king perches his elbows on the dining table. Twines his fingers together, resting his chin atop his knuckles, a deceptively sweet smile boasting his teeth. Having known him for as long as you have, you can easily sense the irritation pouring over the tense set of his muscles. The stiffness between his shoulder blades, peering through the tailored pleat of his jacket.

“My Lady,” he begins, words bathed in silk. “I’m not sure how you treat your subjects in Universum, and frankly, I do not care. But here, we address our people with dignity and respect regardless of race, color, status, or creed.”

The queen’s expression morphs into one of mortification. She straightens in her seat, a steady creep of redness inhabiting her cheeks as she studies the doily texture of the tablecloth. You resist an urge to cheer.

“While you are my guest, you are expected to behave with poise and grace. And I would greatly appreciate it if you did not disrespect my friend here like that again.”

Scarlet eyes briefly flit to you, shining with a spark of fondness—a tenderness that sets your body alight with heat—before returning to the queen.

“Or anyone in my kingdom, for that matter. Understood?” His Majesty concludes with a raised brow, sparing no room for argument.

Pride swells in your chest, warm like the soft embrace of a fur shawl on a wintry day. He’s shut her up in his own way. Read her to filth with the poise and regality of a man of his stature, and you’re envious of his composure. They don’t call him a king for nothing.

You straighten at his side, mouth twitching with the threat of an arrogant smile, and your chin lifts slightly. Defiantly.

She studies her lap, pulling at her fingernails. You watch a kaleidoscope of emotions stroll across her face before a nervous titter falls from her lips.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. That was very inappropriate of me.” Her pink tongue darts out to wet her lips while she sweeps a chocolate ringlet of hair behind her ear. “I was only hoping that the two of us could have a little…chat.” She looks at you, a note of caution stirring beneath her lashes. “Alone.”

Sylus sits back with a scoff as if he’s just as confused by her request as you are. It’s rare you leave his side. Rare you’re not in his shadow, head on a swivel, fingers wrapped about your sword. You’re even present when he’s sunk beneath the murky pull of sleep.

“Does her being here pose some sort of threat to you?” he interrogates around a smirk.

“Not so much a threat as it is a distraction.”

A distraction to whom, you wonder. It’s a ridiculous request. You’re his bodyguard, for the Gods’ sake. You wouldn’t put it past her to make an attempt on his life in your absence. Forgo the pleasantries and proposal for marriage and end his lineage here and now. Not that she could.

Your mouth works around a protest, yet it dies in your throat when your king calls your name after some time spent deliberating. He peers at you from his shoulder, and you snap to attention.

“Sorry, dear friend,” he says, tone sloping with repentance. “Would you mind giving us some space for a little while? I fear your presence is making our guest uncomfortable.”

You cast him a pensive look. Lips tremble and part. His expression softens, and he winks at you, turning up the dial of his charm.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

Of course, he will be alright. His Majesty is more than capable of handling himself. Sometimes, you wonder what purpose you serve. He’s a hulk of a man, brimming with untapped power and bleeding intimidation. Most days, you feel you’re by his side to create the illusion of protection.

Remembering your place, you step back and excuse yourself with a curt bow. You caution one last look at your charge before pivoting, briskly making for the door, ignoring the thunderous drum of your pulse in your ears.

You feel his eyes track your every move as your boots click soundly against the glittering, marbled floor. Feel the queen’s gaze drilling into your back, exuding a quieted smugness as if she’s won your silent war of wills.

As the solid, ornate doors of the dining hall draw closed behind you, you catch wind of their conversation over your shoulder, and your heart plummets to your feet.

“So,” begins the queen, voice steeping low. “I hear you are in need of a bride.”

—

You’re a mess of grit teeth and unease on the doors’ other side.

You’ve paced back and forth for what feels like an eternity, warring with your emotions. You’re not sure what has you more on edge: having been made to look like a fool in front of your king, or the implications of that statement when you departed from the dining room.

“I hear you are in need of a bride.”

The conversation was inevitable. Doesn’t mean you have to like it.

It’s the entire reason Universum’s queen has frequented your kingdom so much. Trying to set him up with her daughter, the princess, under the guise of uniting your people. You both know she’s greedy for power following her husband’s untimely demise, and His Majesty is teeming with it.

You scoff, stopping your march to lean against the double doors, arms crossed over your chest. With a shuddering breath out, your face turned skyward, and your eyes shuttered closed, you try to compose yourself.

If you keep huffing and puffing about like this, you might convince yourself that you care for your king more than you should. More than you’re allowed to.

When you’ve begun to settle your nerves, the chorus of boots striking the carpeted floor piques your interest.

You open an eye as dark figures of varying heights and sizes ease into frame, moving past you, carrying laughter and camaraderie with them. Crownsguardsmen.

They regard you with quick bows and wary smiles, their banter lulling to a dull murmur in the face of their superior. You acknowledge them casually, still propped against the oakwood doors, not at all in the mood for formalities.

Amid the gaggle of guards, a set of curious sienna eyes alight on you, widening with recognition before crinkling with glee.

The smaller guard shoves through her comrades, briskly approaching you as her teammates walk out of sight. You study the top of her sleek, brown hair before she stops before you. And you stiffen, stammering as she snatches up your hands, her excitement palpable.

Tara. You recognize her as a new recruit with youthful eyes and enough enthusiasm to power the entire Citadel.

She reminded you of yourself when you first joined the king’s army. A young woman with a target on her back because of her gender and status. She possessed exceptional prowess with an array of weapons and vast knowledge of the kingdom’s technology. Yet, she was constantly beleaguered by her comrades and, oftentimes, her trainers.

You threw around your brass a little, ensuring she was treated as fairly as her male counterparts whilst she trained as a knight. Sometimes sparred or studied with her on your rare occasions of downtime. You were there to congratulate her when she’d been appointed a member of His Majesty’s royal guard.

With King Sylus on the throne, the Crownsguard became more progressive, opening its doors to anyone willing to lay their life down for him. Too bad a bunch of egotistical, chauvinistic airheads still occupied his ranks.

“Good afternoon, ma’am!” Tara sing-songs, overflowing with zeal.

You wince at the pitch of her voice, the brilliance of her smile. But you find her infectious, a soft chuckle ducking through your lips. You unwind one of your hands from her grasp, ruffling her hair affectionately. Had she been anyone else, you would’ve reprimanded her for forgoing the proper customs and courtesies.

But are you really in any position to lecture anyone about etiquette right now?

“Good afternoon, Tara.” You’re surprised by the mildness of your voice. The fondness of it.

If she had a tail, it would surely be wagging. Your innards color with warmth at the thought. You’ve found someone else you want to protect almost as much as your king.

“How are you today, ma’am?” she asks, dispelling the nebula of your thoughts.

Averting your gaze, you sigh, recalling what’s got you so out of sorts in the first place. You cross your arms, your spine reacquainting itself with the intricate carvings of one of the dining room’s doors with a muted thunk. “I’ve had better days.”

Tara’s expression pulls into one of curiosity. “Something the matter?”

She steps closer, bursting your figurative bubble. With her hands clasped behind her back, Tara scrutinizes you, ducking this way and that, giving you a visual inspection.

“Come to think of it, isn’t His Majesty having brunch with the Queen of Universum right now?” She pensively taps her lip with her index finger, eyes narrowing in thought. “Behind you?”

You flinch, watching her from down your nose. She’s eerily perceptive for someone so young. Invasive, pummeling you with a hundred questions a minute.

“That’s strange. Aren’t you normally by his side? Did something happen? Did you get into trouble?” Tara goads, nudging you with her elbow.

You scoff, pushing off the door. For all the years you’ve known your king, you’ve never been in trouble with him. Garnered the ire of his advisor once or twice, sure. Pissed off his royal entourage with your sharp tongue, maybe. But you don’t think Sylus harbors a malicious bone in his body for you. You don’t think he ever could.

You cross the hall, perching your hands on an adjacent windowsill. The marble texture is cold beneath your palms. Grounding. You study the mixture of historical and modern architecture lining the horizon, a scene reminiscent of a dragon’s maw.

The land of Insomnia brims with life beyond The Citadel’s walls, a nation once war-torn slowly rebuilding itself under the guidance of your genial king.

“No, I’m not in trouble.” You turn, sitting on the ledge. Your voice descends as if you’re having a conversation with yourself. “But not everyone seems to like the idea of me at the king’s side.”

Tara moves towards you with a placating smile, taking up one of your hands and squeezing it. “The queen doesn’t like you very much, does she?”

Your silence serves as her answer.

The smaller woman pats your hand, thumb smoothing over the rough patch of skin stretched over the clutch of it. “Well, I could’ve told you that.”

You cut your eyes at her in warning. What’s with everyone testing your patience today? Picking on you?

“You’re competition,” Tara matter of factly adds, maneuvering to lean against the windowsill beside you.

You study the weathered tips of your boots before your gaze slowly rises to Tara. Her eyes gloss over with tenderness. With pity as a slow creep of heat inhabits the pit of your stomach. You avert your gaze, boring into the dining hall’s doors.

You don’t have to ask what she means by that; you’ve heard the statement numerous times as of late. Your king’s recent treatment of you doesn’t help matters, exacerbating the rumor that you’re more than just his loyal subject.

As if sensing your internal plight, Tara decides to shift gears. You’re grateful for the reprieve, getting too hung up in your mind again.

“So, do you really think the queen killed her husband?” she whispers, leaning in with a hand cupped around her mouth.

You chuckle. Leave it to Tara to fill the space with gossip. “I couldn’t say. But I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s a bit of a bi—”

As if on cue, the grandiose doors of the dining room groan open, spilling the artificial light inside onto the carpeted floor. You and Tara snap to attention like two youths caught dawdling, stone-faced, the remnants of your conversation corked in your throats.

How anticlimactic, you muse, watching several figures emerge from the room until your eyes alight on a familiar, riotous mop of white.

Your breath thickens in your throat as scarlet eyes capture yours. The lips beneath them quirk before the towering silhouette they belong to, strides past you.

Tara’s hand brushes yours. You don’t have to look to know she’s giving you the most impish side-eye.

The queen turns on her heel to face your king, her entourage scuttling about behind her. She’s half-hidden by the mass that is His Majesty, but beyond his bulk, you make out her red lips curving into a deceitful smile. Bile singes the back of your throat, your fists tightening at your sides.

“It’s been a pleasure, Your Majesty.” She punctuates her words with a small curtsy and head tilt.

His Majesty stuffs his hand in his pocket, his wispy hair sweeping over broad shoulders. Boredom lances through his deep timbre, and you imagine his eyes rolling with disinterest. “The pleasure was hardly mine.”

An indignant sound salts the air, dredged from the queen’s throat. You bite back a laugh, recalling what got you sent out in the first place. Tara flinches in your peripheral, tamping down a laugh herself.

Ignoring your king’s waywardness, the queen squares her shoulders and straightens her spine, her head held high. She clears her throat, holding out her hand for your liege to take. When he does nothing, she waggles it expectantly, wordlessly demanding he kiss it.

You watch the scene unfold with bated breath, tight lips. Inwardly cheer when Sylus scoffs, turning away from his obstinate guest. He waves a tired hand over his shoulder, summoning two guards stationed by the hallway’s entrance.

“Please ensure the queen makes it back to her car. Safely or harmed, I don’t care,” he tacks on under his breath.

The guards acknowledge him with nods and move to flank the queen and her royal retinue. The woman huffs, indignantly stomping her foot like a child deprived of their favorite snack. She grabs the tail of her dress and brusquely spins before being led out, carrying her jilted air with her.

You resist a smile. Pride spools heavy in your chest. It’s almost like your souls are linked; your king’s never cared for rude nobles and their politics, mirroring your sentiment.

He conquers the space between you in three measured strides. Pilfers the air from your lungs as electricity and pheromones spark between you, and you’re drawn into the ruinous stir of his eyes.

Sensing the shift in the atmosphere, Tara dismisses herself with a bow, but not before discreetly nudging you in her retreat. Sylus barely acknowledges her, busy memorizing every detail of your face. Every tight breath slipping through your parted lips, every feathery flutter of your lashes.

You rapidly blink as if remembering where you are, keenly aware that the pair of you are alone.

The king’s proximity throws you off-kilter. The earthy scent and comforting warmth he exudes permeate the thickened layers of your uniform, wrapping around your heart, squeezing, leaving you raw and exposed. Your jaw ticks.

His expression slackens, brows knitting in the inner corners, and he coyly cocks his head to one side. “Are you alright, dear friend?” The texture of his voice is gritty as sandpaper, yet it’s disarming in a way that leaves you weak-kneed with a heavy tongue.

“H-huh?” comes your foolish reply. You would kick yourself for how lovestruck you sound.

Your king chuckles, a genuine sound reserved for hushed moments like these, tucked away from the prying eyes of his court. Your lips twitch before a slender finger pokes the space between your eyes, dispelling the dreamlike fog that once loomed overhead.

“I asked,” poke, “if you,” poke, “are feeling,” poke, “alright? You look a bit flustered.”

You swat his hand like an enraged feline, to which he chuckles, all manner of refinement thrown to the wolves. He’s as bratty as ever, a reflection of that child you once knew who’d shove you off the hill to be king of it. Who knew he’d grow to take an entire kingdom onto his shoulders?

You clear the phlegm from your throat, taking a step back, haughtiness meddling with your features as his hand falls listlessly at his side.

“I’m fine, Majesty. Though I’d be better if someone learned to keep his hands to himself.”

The monarch in question feigns innocence, blinking owlishly, a dramatic hand splayed over his heart. “What? I thought you liked it when I badgered you like this. When I kept you on your toes.”

You scowl, crossing your arms and impatiently tapping your foot. “Not when it borders sexual harassment. Need I remind you of your briefings, sir? Should we revisit them?”

He sputters, mortification descending on his face. You bite back a snicker. He’s much too handsome like this—playful, boyish, unguarded. An affectionate smile crests over his mouth when you let a bewitchingly sweet laugh slip. He takes a step forward, swaddling you in prickly static, dwarfing you by a good foot. Your traitorous heart thumps something wild, threatening to leap from your chest as the mirth melts from your face.

“Would you believe that woman came here to coerce me into taking her daughter’s hand?” rasps your king, voice descending into a secret.

You swallow, staring between his eyes, unconsciously leaning back. You nod when words fail you. Bristle as a set of spindly fingers creep down your forearm in pursuit of your hand, scorching through the fibers of your coat.

Your breath catches whilst His Majesty brings your hand to his lips, and he kisses it with as much fervor as he did in the gardens. It’s a simple gesture. An innocent one that feels perverse in a way, burning down to your core, the molten heat creeping back up to take residence in your neck and face.

“The only hand I wish to hold,” he smooths his thumb over the notches of your knuckles like a blind man committing their texture to memory, “is this one.” Another brush of full lips makes you wince as if branded by a hot iron.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to breathe. Not with him so close, nor with the potency of his gaze drilling down to your soul. You wonder if he’s trying to kill you when he tugs you to him, a possessive hand falling to your hip.

Whatever oxygen was left in your lungs abandons you in a sharp gasp, making way for a pleasant fuzziness and overwhelming heat. He snakes his arm around your waist before dipping you like the pair of you are waltzing, and your hand instinctively clasps around his shoulder to keep you from crumbling to the floor.

Hooded eyes pan in, filling your vision with nothing but a beautiful wash of red. His stare centers in on your mouth, and he leans closer until your breaths intermingle, and your limbs feel like jelly, and you’re lightheaded, and…and—

You screw your eyes shut, pushing your palms against his catastrophically hard chest. He’s a dream forged by the Gods. Temptation sent to lure you astray.

“Majesty,” you gasp. You sound so incredibly pitiful, so breathless, and it makes you sick. “Majesty, please. You can’t—we can’t—” You twist your head, pillow-soft lips grazing your cheek instead of your mouth, pleasant tingles of sensation humming throughout your body.

“Can’t what?” he breathes, voice strained with the effort of containing himself whilst he roots his nose against the tender space behind your ear. He draws you closer against the hard press of his body whilst nosing along your jaw, ingesting the warm scent wafting off your skin.

Your shoulder throbs beneath your uniform where two raw indentations reside. They’ve never truly healed after two years, the pain announcing itself in intimate quarters like this with your king. It’s a reminder of your anchor to him, to what truly lives beneath his skin.

“The maids, the guards. What if—” You scramble for every excuse not to give in. Not to betray the oath you took to protect him. To always put him first, to never fall for him. “—what if someone sees us, Majesty?”

A bitten-off, barely there growl cleaves through your ramblings. Lithe fingers encase your jaw, coaxing you to look at your charge. A glacial thrill shoots through your body at the sight that greets you. White, mussed hair falls perfectly into his face, lips parted and glistening invitingly, eyes wrinkling with a mixture of anguish and yearning. He reminds you of something beastly, fighting to reign in his instincts. Fighting not to lose control.

“You’ve known me for however long, yet you insist on calling me that.”

He gathers your cheek into his pleasantly warm palm, angling your neck further back. You fight to keep your eyes open, your fingers curling into the fabric of his blazer. You’re spilling over the edge. Teetering over that blurry line between daydreams and reality.

“I wish you would stop with the formalities. Majesty this, Your Majesty that.” Scoff. “Is this your way of shutting me out? Pushing me away?”

You haven’t the gall to tell him yes, too distracted by the flats of his nails dragging along your cheek, sweeping errant hair strands behind your ear. You shudder, and he pans in, your mouths but a whisker’s width apart.

“If you carry on like this, I may have to punish you for your insolence.”

You suck in a breath at the underlying threat in his voice. Know it carries no weight. He’d never lay a finger on you outside of affection. But how wonderful it sounds, to be punished for your insubordination.

Your noses brush, mouths ghosting over each other whilst careful fingers curl around your nape, scrawling through your hair. You fear that you might faint, the heat spooling in your belly threatening to burn through layers of flesh. You’re clutching the lapels of his jacket for dear life now. Torturing yourself, wanting to conquer what little space remains between your mouths and—

Forbidden. The accursed word echoes in your mind like the weighted chime of a church bell. It resounds so miserably in your mind, reminding you of your place. Your duty. You’re no noblewoman. No contender for his heart.

“Please don’t,” you utter between a laugh and a sob. Begging is unbecoming of you, but when it comes to protecting your king and his crown, you would fall to your knees if you had to.

The body against yours stiffens. A pained sound tears through His Majesty’s chest, crackling like a hearth fire. You feel terrible for denying him again. For pushing him away like you always do. But many women regularly throw themselves at his feet, willing to ease his affliction—women of noble blood, of virtue.

Grief furrows his brows, his eyes sweeping over your face. A forlorn smile touches his lips. He exhales loudly, shakily, his thumb cruising over the outward arc of your brow, his gaze tracking the gentle movement.

“Of everything that resides within these walls, within this kingdom, you manage to elude me the most.”

His eyes snap to yours, and you shiver beneath the weight they boast. He could easily flex his power over you. Command you to stay still while he ravages you. But that’s never been his style, has it? Another trait of his drawing you deeper into his spell.

“Why do you run from me? Why do you continue to deny me? Why continue to deny yourself? I hear how your body calls to me. Your heartbeat, your scent. So ripe. So untainted.”

The exasperation in his voice makes your stomach lurch.

I’m not denying anyone, you wish to say. I just…I don’t know. I don’t—

“Where in the hells is he?!” a familiar voice ricochets through the empty hallway—your saving grace. Seems his advisor is on a rampage again. You’ve never wanted to kiss the eccentric man more.

“Impeccable timing as always,” sighs your king, rolling his eyes. He reluctantly releases you, his hands at your waist until your legs remember they are meant to support you.

Just as you spring apart, and you begin smoothing out the wrinkles in your uniform, your hair spills in warm tendrils down your neck, puddling around your shoulders, water-falling from its usual coiffure.

You blink incredulously, taking note of the impish smirk canting the king’s lips. Something silver gleams in your periphery.

You watch with horror as he twirls your hairpin between dexterous fingers before bringing the warm, tarnished metal to his lips for a kiss. It’s an intimate sight. An image that makes a shiver wrack your spine, makes you dizzy, and you don’t know whether to be flattered or mortified.

“Y-Your Majesty, give that back!”

The monarch in question chuckles something smoky, dangling the ornate pin out of reach when you swipe at it. He has an unfair advantage over you. You contemplate kicking him in his shin, figuring the risk of losing your foot is well worth it.

Your breasts scrub against him as you struggle on tippy toes, clawing at your hairpin with the ferocity of a cat. And as your nipples knot beneath the rough glide of your uniform, you are reminded of the devastating press of His Majesty’s body.

By the Gods, it’s too much. You’re sure your face is all types of flustered now, heat spuming beneath your skin.

“My, my. Throwing yourself at your king like this. How scandalous,” he purrs, enjoying your plight a little too much. His twisted way of getting revenge for you staving off his advances.

“Your Majesty, that is my mother’s,” you pant, taking a step back with beseeching eyes.

He clicks his tongue, studying the pin as if it houses all the secrets to your bloodline. “That makes the spoils of victory that much sweeter.”

You watch with puffed up cheeks as he tucks the hairpin into his breast pocket, the jaded metal gleaming condescendingly at you.

“Consider it collateral.”

For what, you haven’t the foggiest.

With all the smugness of the world, your king brushes past you, his hands in his pockets. You stomp behind him, fighting to keep stride with his longer ones, clawing at his pocket when a moment presents itself.

You try to sweep your hair into some semblance of neatness before the pair of you meet his advisor. Before curious eyes can form questions where there should be none.

You hardly miss the enamored smile rounding his lips as he peers at you over his shoulder.

“You lunatic,” you curse beneath your breath, barely concealing the hint of unguardedness inhabiting your voice.

—

It all makes sense as you shackle his neck with a rusted collar. You can count on one hand how often you’ve had to do this in the past year.

You step back after sliding your fingers over the stubble on his cheeks. His eyes harbor a deep sadness despite the smirk on his face, baring a pointed canine.

“What? No muzzle this time?”

You scoff, kneeling before him, defiantly peering into his eyes, a harsh forefinger pressed between his pectorals. “If you keep talking, I’ll have one of the twins fetch it from the car.”

He chuckles at your brazenness. Leave it to him to try to lighten the mood in an atmosphere rife with tension. Thick with urgency, with fear. He tests the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, ensuring they won’t give too much when they’re put to the test later.

As if on autopilot, you reach out to ease sweat-slicked hair from his forehead, and he pauses, those brilliantly devastating eyes drinking you in.

He swallows, studying the ground. For the first time in a long time, you’ve seen true fear stain your king’s visage.

“One day, I won’t leave this cage as the man you know and love.”

You scoff, masking your anxiety as you placatingly pat his thigh. You stand, swiping his coat on the way up, dust speckling its sleeves. You have to be strong. You’re slowly falling apart at the seams but must remain fearless. He needs all the strength you can lend him right now.

You give him a quick look, a brief upward pull of your lips, before turning away from your king, the cage’s heavy door squealing shut behind you. You err in your steps when he calls your name. Slightly tilt your chin over your shoulder.

“When that day comes, I expect you to uphold your end of the bargain.”

Your grip on his coat tightens, jaw set in a terse line. “That day will never come,” you murmur, more to yourself than him, and you hurry up the sand-laden stairs towards the structure’s entrance.

The twins address you with curt nods as you pass them on your way to the car. Night and soaring evergreens stretch overhead like a yawning beast. The moon peers through the treetops, sluggishly cresting its way to the center of the sky.

You sling His Majesty’s coat across the backseat. Stiffen when a familiar glint of silver catches your sight from behind his breast pocket. You grit your teeth, leaning against the car door to grant yourself a moment of respite.

“How do you stand this? Does it ever get any easier?” you recall Tara asking, her eyes glossing over with a thin film of tears as she squeezed your hands.

She was still fresh to this lifestyle. To this harrowing secret lurking beneath the kingdom. You couldn’t blame her for being scared witless. No one wanted to see the king in pain. Only a handful of people knew of his true nature. What bubbled beneath his skin.

It never does, you think, pushing off from the car and slamming the door shut.

Your boots crunch soundly over dead grass and splintered twigs as you make your way back to the twins. You squeeze Kieran’s shoulder reassuringly, giving him a tight-lipped smile. He nods, his somberness hidden beneath the gaudy beak of his mask.

It never gets easier, hearing him scream like that. Bloodcurdling and raw, reminiscent of a demon clawing its way from the hells. Hearing him call to you in a voice so broken, you feel its talons sinking into your heart. You’ve just grown more skilled at hiding your pain. Holding back your tears.

What good are you if you can’t even protect your liege from himself?

— tags: @f1c-recs, @mt2sssss, @samoankpoper21, @lovemesomesaltysylus

prologue | masterlist

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wisechoosin · 12 days ago

Text

To read later

Classified: Asset W

Pairing: Sylus X Reader Marriage AU

Words: 5.4K

This is a gift for the lovely @diamondtiger! When she said she was craving glasses/Sylus beig a sexy menace, I knew it was my duty to deliver! It's a love letter to fogged lenses, war crimes committed in your honour, and the kind of husband who gets hard from handing you a file full of executions, the dream honestly.

Beta-read by her majesty herself @diamondtiger💎- thank you for your hard work lovely!

Content warnings ⚠️

Explicit sexual content. Power imbalance. Dubious morality (he murders people… lovingly). Mentions of torture/execution. Glasses kink, paperwork kink, violence kink, he-is-my-husband-and-my-weapon kink. Fingering. Couture disrespect with 0 apologies! Aftercare. No thoughts, just tiddies and tactical precision.

If you feel there’s any other warnings I need to add then please reach out and let me know!

You lingered in the doorway of his office, hip resting against the smooth wood, wine glass in hand.

The soft light of his office cast a warm amber glow over everything. Leather-bound folders, metal paperweights, and pens arranged with exact precision. Everything in its place. The far wall featured a large window that displayed the glowing hues of the vibrant N109 zone. The city came alive at night, illuminated by neon and bloodlust. It was filled with possibilities and vibrancy. However, here, inside the warmth of your shared home, everything was calm. Heavy. Private. The kind of hush that invited confessions or sins.

And he looked obscene like this.

Relaxed in his chair, he lounged with one ankle resting casually on his knee. A file was balanced against the edge of his desk, while his reading glasses sat low on the bridge of his nose. His silver hair, long at the nape and tousled, gave away his true state of mind. He was too busy to bother with neatness, a testament to too many moments running his hands through it.

He hadn’t noticed you yet. Or maybe he had and was letting you believe otherwise.

You took a sip of wine, eyes tracing the slope of his throat, the way the collar of his black shirt gaped open just enough to expose the chain resting against his skin. The glint of his rings in the low light drew your attention to the slow drag of his finger over the page.

His lips were curved into something too soft to be a smile, too knowing to be neutral.

The glass trembled slightly in your hand.

“You planning to stand there all night?” he asked without looking up, voice low and lazy.

Alas, you were caught. Still, you didn't move, only leaning your shoulder a little deeper into the doorframe as you shielded your warm cheeks behind your glass.

“Maybe,” you murmured.

That made him slowly glance up. His carmine eyes peeked over the rim of his glasses.

Fuck. The look in his eyes, sharp and static, made your spine straighten and your thighs press together. He didn’t speak right away. Just let his gaze coast over you with a hunger you could physically feel.

Yes, you were staring. And he was staring right back at you.

Not that you could blame him. It was only natural for him to stare when you’d dressed exactly for him.

A silk scrap of fabric that could in no way be called a nightdress clung to your skin, baring just the right amount of cleavage and sitting prettily well above mid-thigh. A matching dressing gown hung lazily from your shoulders, covering about as much as the dress did. And it was all in his colour: blood red and black lace.

"You’re staring," you teased, flashing a sly grin.

“You’re… distracting,” he breathed. His eyes drifted closed as he removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. You nearly mourned the loss.

“It’s late, darling. When will you be finished?”

“Mmm.” He hummed at the pet name, eyes snapping open to drink you in. “I just need to finish this last report. And then I’m all yours.”

He placed his glasses back in their rightful spot on his face.

You smiled bashfully, your eyes dropped to the file resting on his thigh. You caught a flash of something brutal. A name you recognised. A sentence underlined in red.

His voice came again, softer now. “You want to know what it says, sweetie?”

Your stomach fluttered. “That depends.”

“On?”

“On whether I’m going to like the contents.”

His smile sharpened. He set the folder down and curled two fingers toward you in invitation, a warm light glinting across those frameless glasses.

"Come here."

You took a single step forward. Then another and another until you were directly between him and the desk.

Up close, he was even more devastating. His sly smirk and blown-out pupils reeked of sin and the inevitable debauchery he would make of you. He sprawled in his chair like it was a throne, and you, his loyal subject. Like he owned you.

And let’s be honest, he did. He owned you and you owned him. Two pets calling each other master and falling over themselves to please each other.

The air between you had thickened into something molten. You expected him to gesture to a seat, maybe hand you the folder like a challenge.

But you should’ve known your husband better than that.

He reached for your wrist and tugged you with a twist of strength and intention. You were pulled down onto his lap, thighs bracketing his with your back to his front.

The wine glass nearly tipped in your hand, crimson sloshing against the crystal as you gave a startled squeak of protest.

“Sylus!” You gasped, startled, but he didn’t give you a moment to catch your breath.

His arm wrapped securely around your waist, anchoring you there. Close and controlled.

“Sit, I want to share the spoils of my victories with you,” he murmured, nose grazing your cheek. “You smell like cherries and sin.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you tilted the glass away, setting it down on the desk with trembling fingers.

His grip on your waist tightened, dragging you flush against the hard planes of his chest, your ass cradled firmly in his lap. He pressed a warm palm to your stomach, coaxing you to relax into his hold.

And that’s when you felt it.

Him.

Hard and undeniable.

He chuckled, low and enticing, the breath of it ghosting over the skin of your neck.

“Don’t squirm," he warned, voice a low purr. "Or we’ll be here even longer than I planned. Weren't you in such a rush to get me to bed, sweetie?"

Your throat went dry. “Maybe I changed my mind.”

That earned a low chuckle from him, breath hot against your ear.

The file was lifted from the desk by the red and black tendrils of his evol and placed in your hands.

“Page three,” he instructed, flipping it open with clinical precision. “Start from the second paragraph. Right here.”

His hand over yours, he guided your finger to the line, then sat back against the chair, utterly relaxed.

You looked down at the file and hesitated, the weight of its contents suddenly very real.

“Read it, kitten.” He smoothed his hand down your side, pinching the meat of your hip in a light warning to obey before wrapping it back around your middle, holding you close.

You took a deep breath.

“Subject 07C, real name Janek Roven, executed 02:14 a.m. Local time. Immediate cause: exsanguination. Final statement-’” You paused, skin prickling, “I didn’t mean to. Please don’t kill me.”

Sylus hummed in approval behind you, the sound vibrating along your back. One hand slipped from around your middle, trailing lower, fingers delicately brushing the curve of your thigh. It was just a light tickle, a mere drag of his fingertips across the skin, but it told you everything about his intentions.

You paused at the touch, relishing in the feeling of your husband’s warm hands on your skin. You already knew what he wanted, how this whole thing would play out; it was just a matter of time.

He knew you so well – where to touch, where to tease, what you liked. He knew your tells, spotting that slight hitch in your breath when you felt his fingers graze your skin.

His pretty little kitten, always so in tune with him, so sensitive that just a touch was enough to have your heart rate pick up and your breath catch.

"Keep going."

You swallowed, eyes flicking over the next line, the words blurring before your unfocused eyes as you fought to focus on anything but him and his wandering hands.

It wasn’t your fault. Your whole body had been fine-tuned to match his frequency, instinctively responsive to give him what he wanted. Years of marriage and fighting side by side would do that to any couple, but the connection you had with Sylus ran much deeper than that.

Two souls, bound together for eternity, two halves of one whole. Of course, it was inevitable that a simple touch would have your mind reeling.

His hand traced over your thigh, firmer and more deliberate. His thumb tracing slow, idle circles, right at the hem of your nightgown, dipping under it and smoothing over your supple skin.

How he expected you to be able to read anything was beyond you. It would’ve made more sense to just forget about it altogether and get to fucking.

You were already wet, had been since you’d seen him in those goddamned glasses. Your hips shifted, feeling him hard against your ass. He was clearly ready too, so what was the point in stalling?

“Sylus-”

“Shhhh,” he murmured, voice featherlight and soft against the shell of your ear, placating. “You're doing so well. Keep going. Keep reading for me, my pretty girl.”

You sighed. He clearly had some ulterior motive here. Something was happening inside his head to demand this of you. You’d indulge him, of course.

“Body parts retrieved and sent to Roven’s associates,” you began, your voice a little thinner than before, breathier in a way that betrayed how his touches had affected you. You should’ve been ashamed at how easily he riled you up, especially with the contents of the folder in your hands. “Site 32 destroyed. Combustion initiated via direct ignition. Chemical accelerant ensured complete structural collapse. Confirmed by satellite at 2:47 a.m. Remaining assets-”

He pressed a kiss just below your ear, warm and lingering, interrupting the flow of your words. The cold of his glasses followed, a sharp contrast to the heat of his mouth.

You shivered.

“Don’t stop,” he coaxed, lips brushing against your jaw. “You’re learning so much.”

“I don’t want-”

“For me, kitten.”

He shifted beneath you then, just enough to grind the length of him against your ass. To make sure you felt exactly what this was doing to him. This is what he wanted.

It was turning him on.

Pervert.

Your next exhale came out shaky, caught between a giggle and a breath. Unsteady.

You wanted to tease him back, to make him drop the facade and just take you like he wanted to.

You tried to move against him, to sit forward, to rock your hips over him, to urge him on, but his arm locked tighter around your waist. Stopping you. Steadying you. Controlling you.

“I said,” he began, dipping his lips to the crook of your neck and biting your skin there. “Keep reading.”

You gasped and choked on the words as he continued his assault on your neck, lavishing kisses and swiping his tongue against the sensitive skin of your throat. “As-assets include Alpha and Beta-m-mmph-”

His mouth dipped lower, trailing a line of heat down your skin, slow and reverent. He shifted again, leaning forward to press his chest firmly against your back, until his teeth grazed the skin just above your collarbone.

You clenched your hands around the folder.

“-A-and high gr-grade protocores from Onychinus’ eastern faction base.”

He withdrew his hand from its grip on your thigh and passed you a highlighter, like it was nothing.

“Here,” he said. “Highlight that last sentence. Slowly.”

Your fingers trembled as you obeyed, dragging the pen across the printed line. He rewarded you with the hand still around your waist, trailing up, up to cup your breast and roll your nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“He-he stole from you?” you asked, voice shaking.

“Mmmhmm,” he hummed, dragging one shoulder of your dressing gown down, baring your warm skin to his predatory gaze.

He pressed another kiss against the newly bared skin, eyes fixed on your hand as you finished underlining.

He hummed again, low and satisfied. “There,” he murmured. “Good girl.”

Heat tore through you like wildfire, like a switch had been flipped. Your knees twitched with the need to press against each other, but he would never allow that. Not when he had you right where he wanted you, trapped in his lap with nowhere to go, his voice sinking into you like velvet soaked in wine.

“Your voice is so sweet,” he murmured, tone dipped in satisfaction. “I should’ve made you read to me a long time ago. It’s much easier to digest this way.”

Sylus’ hand trailed higher up your thigh, nudging up the hem of your dress up and up, until it sat dangerously high on your thighs. One centimetre higher and he would discover the terrible secret you had been hiding from him all night.

His other palm moved down from your shoulder and flattened against your stomach. His fingers splayed wide, thumb and pinky spanning the length of your belly, measuring just how deep he knew he fit inside you.

His breath stuttered against your collarbone when his thumb traced a soft line above your navel. His palm flattening fully and pulling you impossibly tighter against his chest.

Sylus shifted beneath you again, rucking up to press his legs between yours. He was a menace, spreading his thighs under yours and gently forcing them apart with his own. It left you with nowhere to run, no leverage to buck upwards or make demands of him. His body pressed against you, hard, steady and deliberate. He moved you as he saw fit, grinding the full length of himself over the curve of your ass and exhaling a shaky breath that fanned warm against your shoulder.

A groan caught low in his throat. One he swallowed down with a soft bite and a slow sweep of his tongue across your shoulder. The dressing gown slipped lower, baring even more of you to the chill in the room.

“Let’s keep going,” he said softly. It wasn’t a request.

His fingers on your thigh moved again, just a hair higher up your thigh, raking your skirt up completely and uncovering your heat.

The cold air made you shiver.

“Start from the top of the next paragraph,” he added he said, voice patient but firm. “And take your time. I want to hear every word.”

You didn’t move.

Not yet.

Not until he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear and whispered, “Or do I need to remind you what happens when you disobey?”

That made your breath catch and spurred you into action.

You picked up the page again.

“Remaining assets under surveillance. Operative… Operative 31-”

You paused, as his mouth grazed your jaw yet again.

“Go on, sweetie,” he urged gently, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “I need to hear you.”

“Operative 31 terminated targets 8C through 10A-ah-less than-”

The soft gasp escaped you as his hand moved higher again, confident and unhurried. He didn’t even pause when he discovered your little secret. No panties, nothing between you. He just groaned, low and visceral, and slid a single finger smoothly through your wet slit, spreading your juices around and making you even messier than before.

You couldn’t finish the line, eyes fuzzy from the sudden onslaught of sensation against you.

He chuckled darkly against your skin.

“You skipped a word,” he groaned, hot and heavy. “Start again. From ‘terminated.’”

And then, just as his fingers brushed just beneath the bud of your clit.

“Slower.”

“Operative 31 terminated targets 8C through 10A in less than 5 minutes,” you corrected yourself.

“Good fucking girl.”

He rewarded you with a swipe of his fingers through your slit, barely grazing over the aching bud, teasing as much as he was rewarding.

You whimpered, hips twitching as his fingers pressed firmer against you. His long fingers sweeping through the mess he’d made of you.

You barely had time to breathe.

Sylus removed his fingers with a slow, wet drag that left your thighs twitching and your thoughts shattered. The report trembled in your grip.

You looked over your shoulder just in time to see him slip his drenched digits between his lips.

He groaned, obscenely loud, like he was savouring the finest wine in his collection.

Heat flamed through you.

His glasses had started to fog. Just a light mist curling at the edges, clinging to the corners of the lenses like condensation on a wineglass. Whether it was from you or him, you didn’t know, and you didn’t care.

God, the way they framed his eyes made everything worse, or better, you couldn’t decide. His lashes fluttering beneath them as his lips worked around his fingers, the hotness of his gaze amplified and sharpened.

Like he was studying you. Like you were a subject on the page, cataloguing your unravelling and fall from grace.

And Sylus, just behind you. Polished and powerful. Sucking your slick from his fingers like it was fucking wine.

He let them go with a wet pop, the sound obscene in the quiet, the fog on his lenses refracting the glint in his eye.

“You are the taste of victory,” he said, and then he licked his thumb clean, too.

You wanted to kiss him. Fuck, you wanted to kiss him so badly.

You leaned back toward him, desperate to close the distance. To taste yourself on his mouth. To feel the heat of his tongue on yours. To be ruined in more ways than one.

But he stopped you.

“One more page, sweetie, please.” It almost sounded like begging, filthy and sweet, desperate as he implored you to obey him.

“You always get like this after a win,” you whispered, deliberately grinding your ass over his erection. “Hard. Hungry. Easy to tease.”

He growled low in his throat and brought his hand down firmly on the meat of your thigh. The smack sounded out in the room, smarting and hot.

And god, you moaned.

“Don’t test me, sweetie. I wasn’t asking you.”

You smiled despite yourself.

His Evol coiled again, calm and crimson, lifting a second folder from beneath the first and depositing it gently in your lap.

“Page six,” he said.

You turned back around to look at it.

Your hand didn’t move at first. You just stared down at the folder in your hands.

Your name stared back at you in bold black font, taunting you with the secrets that it contained. You must have hesitated too long for his liking, because he brought his hand down again in a harsh smack. This time, landing right against your clit and sending shockwaves through your whole body.

You gasped, back arching against him and squealing from the shock. “Sylus!”

“Each time you stop, each time you hesitate, you get one more. Am I clear?” He asked, and you nodded frantically. “Words, sweetie. Use them.”

You nodded again before catching yourself as he raised his hand in preparation. “Yes! Yes, I understand,” you sputtered.

You held up the folder in shaky hands and took an unsteady breath before opening up to page 6.

The paragraph began like the others, clinical and sterile.

“Subject 9A located at perimeter of safe zone. Suspected of plotting abduction and extraction of Asset W. Asset W?”

You had sat in on countless Onychinus meetings before but you had never heard of “Asset W” before. “What’s Asset-” another smack rang out in the office space as Sylus brought his hand down hard against your pussy, this time leaving his hand there and soothing the sharp sting with the pads of his fingers in a gentle caress.

“Ahh! Fuck! I didn’t even-”

“You hesitated, kitten, and I am a man of my word,” his fingers danced over your clit lightly, too lightly to do anything except tease. It had you clenching around nothing and leaking even more slick into the lap of your husband behind you.

“Well, what's Asset W? I need the context if I’m the one reading it,” you argued.

He let out a soft chuckle in your ear and surprised you with a kiss against the juncture of your neck. “Wife,” was his only answer to your question.

You snorted. “You can’t be serious, Sy. Asset W means Asset Wife?”

You looked at him over your shoulder and found him resting his forehead against the skin of your neck, red eyes, hot and molten, peering at you over the rim of his glasses and a pretty blush staining the tops of his ears and cheeks.

You leaned back and kissed his forehead. “That’s such a lame code name, baby,” you giggled.

He tilted his head up, looking through his lenses to really take in the dazzling smile on your face as you teased him. “I know, kitten. So, so lame.”

He plunged his fingers inside your tight pussy and smirked as the grin was wiped off your face with a choked moan.

His fingers curled, hitting your sensitive spot with an accuracy that betrayed just how well he knew your body, just how well he could take control and flip the scales in his favour. “Now, are you going to read it or is your lame husband going to have to punish you properly?”

“I-I’ll read it, I’ll read it!” you gasped out. “Subject 9A taken into c-custody and interrogated. Methods of interrogation: isolation, threat, sleep d-depriva- oh fuck! Deprivation, nail avulsion, glossectomy, and mass- frahhh, mass fractures resulting in death.”

Sylus hummed low in your ear. “Do you understand it? What I had them do to him?”

Sylus quickened the movements of his fingers inside you, deep, precise motions that had you seeing stars and bucking against his hold.

“M’hmmm yeah, I-I understand it.”

“Then keep reading,” he murmured, too gently. “You were doing so well.”

Shame curled hot in your gut. You were soaked and embarrassingly close from all the teasing. Wet sounds and your breathy moans filled the quiet stillness of the office, a symphony composed for only its creator to listen to. And it was his favourite of all his masterpieces, his magnum opus.

His fingers were still working you slowly. Torturously, sliding in and out, curling just right, the heel of his palm nudging your clit each time he shifted his fingers. You were wet, almost too slick, the mess pooling on his suit trousers beneath you almost uncomfortably.

You bit your lip. Your thighs quaked. The paper scrunched under your fingers.

He leaned in, glasses fogged again, lips curling up wickedly against your cheek.

“Sweetie,” he said softly. “Don’t tell me this is turning you on this much.”

How he thought you’d be able to form a coherent sentence was utterly beyond you. How could you think straight when your gorgeous husband was playing you like a damn instrument, using all of his intel to make you lose your mind?

His fingers stilled entirely.

“No, no,” he said, dangerously calm. “Don’t get shy now. You’ve been reading so beautifully. You’ve been so good for me.”

His thumb pressed against your clit, firmly, drawing out a gasping, breathy moan from the depths of your chest. “Tell me. Are you close?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself.

He tsked.

“Don’t cum yet, don't you dare. If you finish,” he murmured, voice smooth as velvet and cruel, “before you finish reading-” He slid his fingers out just to the first knuckle. “-you’re going to be in so much trouble, my love.”

You gasped. Clenched. Nearly cried.

The file trembled in your hands.

“Keep going,” he said. “Third paragraph.”

You blinked through the blur and found the next line.

Your voice broke as you read.

“Subject 9C. Associate of Subject 9A. I-interrogated at secondary location 𝛃. All digits removed post-interview. Eyes chemically destroyed.” You choked out the words, breathless and wanton.

What was wrong with you? Was it just your husband making this so thrilling? There was no way that reading about people being tortured was getting you off. Surely you weren’t that depraved.

“Sylus, please! Please, baby, I can’t-”

“You can, I know you can. You’re my good girl, my perfect little kitten, you can do it for me, right?” He goaded.

You nodded feverishly. And he hummed, picking up the pace and moving his fingers inside you again, freeing you from the torment.

“Treated with high-dose capsaicin derivative via dermal injection. Oh my god-” you whispered.

He groaned into your neck. “Mmm. That’s the one. That made you clench so hard, kitten.”

“Final protocol: t-tracheal crush. Time of death, 03:12.”

You were shaking.

And Sylus was faring no better. He exhaled like he was drunk.

“Do you see what I do for you, sweetie?” he whispered. “You see what happens when someone threatens what’s mine?”

His fingers plunged back in, hard and deep, his palm flattening against your clit and working feverishly to get you back to where he wanted you. Hovering over the precipice.

“Their life ends. No exceptions.”

You cried out. Loud.

“And you love it. Don’t you? My utter devotion to you, the lives I have ended for you,” he hissed. “Say it. Say you love it.”

You could barely speak, whines and moans clawing up your throat.

And Sylus was almost as wrecked as you.

His glasses had slid down his nose again, precariously close to falling off, but he didn’t bother adjusting them. He just leaned forward and pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to your neck, groaning against your skin as he rolled his hips beneath you, grinding his cock hard against your soaked thighs.

The hand that had been anchoring you to him around your middle reached for the centre seam of your nightdress and ripped. The sound of tearing silk split the air like thunder.

You didn’t have it in you to be pissed about him ruining yet another of your pretty nightgowns. You gasped, body jolting as cool air rushed over newly exposed skin. Your tits spilled free, nipples tight and aching in the sudden chill.

“Fuck. I’m sorry, kitten, I needed to see them. I’m sorry, I’ll buy you a hundred more,” he growled. “You’re so pretty like this. All mine. All ruined.”

He wrapped his hand around one breast, squeezing almost too roughly, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger before giving it a sharp pinch that made you cry out.

“You’re dripping, sweetie. So wet you’re soaking through my trousers,” he murmured, twisting your nipple again while his fingers fucked you steadily. “God, listen to you. I haven’t even let you cum yet and you’re already shaking for me.”

Your thighs twitched again. Your hips rocked forward involuntarily, chasing more friction, more anything.

“You're filthy,” he breathed, kissing down your shoulder, his voice thick with something bordering on reverence. “My perfect, beautiful, depraved little wife. Getting off on death reports and violence. You’re so perfect for me.”

“Please, Sy, pleaseee…” you sobbed.

His fingers plunged deeper. Pressed harder.

“I want you to cum just like this,” he whispered. “With my fingers inside you. With my name in your mouth. While you hold the evidence of what I did for you.”

Your whole body bucked in his lap.

“Do it for me, kitten. Come on. Be good. Be so good and let me feel it, let me feel how much you love me.”

His hand pinched your nipple again, rougher this time, while his palm dragged tight over your clit. The pressure was perfect. It was everything. And the voice in your ear? Begging? That tipped you over the edge.

“You’re mine,” he said. “No one touches you. No one even thinks about you without dying for it.”

You shattered around his fingers with a cry that bordered on a scream, the report fluttering from your trembling fingers as your whole body seized. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, could only feel as each wave crashed over you, dragging you under.

Sylus held you through it, whispering filth and praise against your skin.

“That’s it, sweetie. That’s it. You’re so good for me. So sweet when you break like this. Look at how you cum for me, so fucking pretty.”

You barely registered the strangled sound he made behind you, a deep, choked groan that cracked into something raw. But you can’t ignore the sharp buck of his hips. The way his hand clutched your breast just a little tighter. The low, wrecked sound he made as he came too, breath hot against your neck, cock twitching in his trousers beneath you.

And through it all, he kept up the movement of his fingers inside, slow and almost reverent, fucking you through the aftershocks while his palm rubbed slow, sinful circles against your overstimulated clit. Just enough to make you twitch. Just enough to keep you squirming in his lap, too sensitive, too full, too his.

“Fuck,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “You’re perfect. You know that, right?”

You whimpered something incoherent, hips giving a weak jerk when his fingers flexed again. “S’too much.”

You slapped his hand, which made him chuckle, low and smug, but he slipped his fingers free all the same, giving you the reprieve you needed. You whimpered as he drew his hand back fully, palm sticky with your release, slow and careful, dragging against your slick walls in a way that made you shiver, oversensitive and raw.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Couldn’t help it. You just feel so good around me.”

The grin in his voice was evident.

You both just sat there for a moment, utterly ruined, catching your breath and basking in the afterglow of not-quite-sex, and then he moved.

One arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other bracing your thigh as he shifted you gently, slowly, turning you in his lap until you were facing him, straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your torn nightdress clinging uselessly to your sides.

His eyes found yours.

And for a moment, all the hunger and sharpness fell away. What was left behind was something softer. A sweetness that was uniquely his.

He cupped your cheek with his clean hand, thumb brushing just beneath your eye. You were flushed, glassy-eyed, still trembling from the aftershocks. And he looked at you like you were the only thing in the entire universe that made any sense.

And when he kissed you, messy, deep and all tongue and teeth, you could feel his devotion and love burning through.

His glasses bumped awkwardly against your nose, the bridge of them pressing into your cheek in a way that was suddenly so silly. He growled lightly, annoyed and reached up with his hand to swipe at them. You giggled at him, looking like an angry cat that got fed up with being teased.

And when he took them off, he kissed you properly. Slower and deeper than before. Devastating in a way that had you melting into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his silver hair.

He finally pulled back, you were both smiling.

“You came in your pants,” you whispered against his mouth, breathless and smug.

“Mm.” He kissed your jaw. “And you soaked my lap. I think we’re even.”

You laughed, the sound soft and hazy.

He brushed a lock of hair from your face, eyes still heavy-lidded with post-orgasm affection. “You know,” he murmured, “you read very well under pressure.”

You rolled your eyes. “Maybe next time you can just send the reports to my inbox like a normal husband.”

“But then I wouldn’t get to watch you squirm,” he replied, smirking. “And you wouldn’t get to soak my notes with your filthy little moans.”

You snorted and buried your face in his neck. “You’re a menace.”

“I’m your menace,” he said, kissing the crown of your head.

“And what am I?”

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, gazing into your eyes with a loving softness.

“The centre of my world,” he said simply.

And because he was a menace, one that couldn’t help himself, he added:

“Also, an absolute slut for violence, apparently.”

You shrieked in indignation, slapping his chest with a laugh.

He caught your hand and kissed it, chuckling rich and deep alongside you.

And just like that, the office was quiet again.

There was a mess beneath you. A file on the floor. His glasses somewhere under the desk. And the two of you, content as anything to ignore it for the time being.

185 notes · View notes

wisechoosin · 13 days ago

Text

A BITE THAT HEALS

STARRING: vampire physician!zayne x sick countess! reader

synopsis: you've fallen dangerously ill and now your position to be countess is threatened by your family that wants to sabotage your claim. with the outbreak of vampiric attackers going rampant, alongside the challenges that come with not being able to see the sun, you seek refuge in your physician's care. and eventually give in to your deepest desires at a a cost.

warnings: porn with plot. angst WITH COMFORT. mention of death, murder attempts, depictions of murder, death, you both want each other, eventual smut, dry humping, body worship, fingering, cunnilingus, hair pulling, vampire sex, multiple orgasms, creampies, you are NASTY FREAKS!

wc: 13,6k

an: Vampire Zayne. VAMPIRE ZAYNE!!!! I promise the angst won't make you cry. I think.

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

The skies have lost their taste. Its colour is as mundane as the mushed texture of expired fruit. In any glimpse your eyes can catch, the clouds cast the sun aside as a salute to you — and your illness.

Your skin is pinched by a sliver of warmth before the curtains draw closed by the gloved hand of a handmaiden; one of many that relentlessly serve you. You gingerly scorn at the shadowed warmth emanating from the gaps between your sanctuary and the outer world.

As your eyes reluctantly draw away from the dull specs of light, your hands subconsciously reach for your arms, half covered by the gown being fitted onto your person. The day has barely begun, and yet your duties as regent countess come first and foremost above all.

Even when the world pities you. Even when you must enshroud yourself in the arms of darkness. Even your body betrays you, weakening faster than you can possibly grow old.

The days had blurred into months, dragging the old beauties of life to become mundane and distasteful. The only true source of exhilaration that remains is a particular practitioner who directly tends to your wellbeing.

“You must avoid attending the evening mass tonight, my lady.” One of your most trusted handmaidens says, wrapping the strings of your corset around her palms. “There have been rampant attacks reported over the last few nights.”

“The same ones as those from last week?”

“Indeed, my lady.”

“Ensure that funds are sent to support the injured and sickly— mostly to the church and infirmaries.” You mutter, feeling your throat become irritated, again. Another illness to add to your agitations. “If I cannot help those in need directly, send my regards through this service. Ensure the reverends respond by tomorrow.”

Your handmaidens nod and work effortlessly, ensuring your undergarments are secure before fitting you into your tea gown. It is the purest representation of elegance, your clothing. Designed to perfect and accentuate your figure, you have donned some of the best gowns and accessories the ton has seen yet. Your every appearance before society — both high and low born — have always left an influential mark.

Many suitors have bent the knee for your hand, many ladies have scorned your ‘theft of their gentlemen’ with your beauty, mystique, and charm. Mamas and patriarchs of the highest families have sent calling cards to request an audience— all of which went unanswered. You truly are the embodiment of divine beauty in mortal form.

And yet, you can barely muster looking at your reflection.

Despite the encouraging words of your handmaidens— granted to you as you grew in training to be secondary to your elder brother should he fail to inherit the title as Count— you struggle to see the person you used to be. Before the illness. Before the pain.

It had begun when your skin prickled and seared under the glare of the sun, an entity you once relished in dancing beneath.

It was a leisurely promenade on horseback with your brother in the peak heat of the summer months. You had come down with an intensive fever after spending barely an hour outside. It appeared your brother suffered the same illness but not as intensely. Only after months of close observation was it confirmed that you had caught a strain of an illness.

One that runs cold and deep within the blood of your ancestors. It rarely appears, which potentially was why your parents had neglected to inform you before their disappearance just months after you came of age and came out to society. That was eight years ago.

Your brother passed on two years after the discovery of your illness, leaving you as the sole heir of your family’s great fortune, and the title as Countess for the lack of a next of kin.

Or so you believed.

Once word had flooded into society that you would be the sole heir to the fortune in your family’s name, your aunt— sister of your father— returned after years of silence to retrieve what she claimed to be hers.

Your incentive, despite your weakened and vulnerable state as young as you were, was to protect what remained of your family’s legacy and to drive your cruel aunt as far away as possible. Unfortunately, your argument was considered weak, for you are an unmarried woman.

She has a son, despite the rest of her children being girls, almost of age and accredited amongst the ton as a well-esteemed man. That public favour only goaded your aunt in her attempts to swipe your inheritance and leave you to rot.

Years of holding back tears and biding your time wore you down. The endless quarrels and battles withered your confidence. Word eventually came to your attention that the bodies of your parents were finally found, and gruesome a discovery it was.

It tore you apart to the point of you being bedridden for months. Your breath had grown hollow for some solemn dark years, your hands tightly gripped by your handmaidens and trusted attorneys begging you to stay strong just long enough to win.

As stubborn as you are, even to this day, you cursed your aunt with every fighting beat of your slowing heart. When your health finally stabilised after years of confinement and grief, your heart locked tight and grew colder.

Your skin is almost as fragile as glass. Your eyes are still sharp regardless of the hollowed gaze you use to terrify that damned aunt of yours. Your fortitude hardened like steel over endless nights of gazing into the darkened night— the only time your eyes did not taunt you with pain just as sickeningly riveting as your grief and rancour.

“You must be careful in your steps, my lady.” Your handmaiden tuts as she pulls the strings, tightening your corset just enough not to harm you. “You’ll only harm your skin and deal great pain upon yourself should you overexert yourself.”

“Would it compare to what I have already suffered?” You ask, not tearing your eyes away from your reflection. Eventually you would have to face what remains of you in the mirror.

Your body took a great surplus of damage over those years of emotional and physical torment. Even the slightest pinch would feel like hundreds of blades piercing your flesh. The best physicians became useless in aiding you. Your hope had begun to diminish as quickly as your health did. Until a spark pushed you back to your graces.

He was the unconventional type, this physician. He held no discrimination between the classes that the hierarchy of your society stood upon— the physicians that failed to treat you often scorned at the alleged scars that cicatrised his flesh, or mocked his methods for his lack of “discernment” on the people he ought to treat.

That alone was more than enough for you to have him be the one to bring you back to greater health.

His attempts, while valiant, did little to bring you to be in a fit enough position to walk without an attendee by your side or a cane to support you in case your muscles give in to weakness. That being said, you praise him generously for trying. For believing that you are capable of healing, even if there are parts of your health that you’ll never see again.

The mere thought of him alone makes your lips curve up just a little.

Your handmaidens complete the rest of your gown in the midst of your reminiscence, and the bell from outside your chambers announces the arrival of your physician. He’s here.

The attendants have definitely noticed the rise in your mood ever since the arrival of your trusted doctor. Despite his unsocial tendencies and his especially dry sense of humour, they’ve taken note of how your body loses tension and relaxes so long as he is within close proximity.

Your hushed conversations mid-observation stretched on for prolonged hours— longer than any standard check up should be. Your smiles were always visible in his presence and only returned to being a rare treasure after he left.

They definitely saw you smiling just a little bit right now.

The doors to your chamber split open, gushing a scent of jasmine and lavender into the room. Your eyes flutter shut, letting the soft breeze greet you with a gentle kiss on your sensitive skin. By the time your eyes opened once more, you could see his gaze on you through the mirror.

“Good afternoon, Zayne.” You smiled. You had long forgone formalities over the stretching months of him treating you to better health. To be fair, you had developed quite a warm friendship.

“You seem to have more strength today,” He glances at your figure, nodding to himself. “You’ve managed to stand still for longer. That’s an improvement.”

“With your support, it is only fair to assume I’d regain my vigour quickly.” With a sharp look to the head of the maids at your stead, they scurry off with excited titters, likely on their way to report of your joy to the rest of the staff. They could all see the growing interest you had in Zayne, and they grew to enjoy his presence too.

Every trip made to your manor involved you pestering your butler to ask the chef to prepare sweet pastries, knowing he had a taste for them. Your handmaidens dressed you in some of your best gowns — which is technically all of them — giggling amongst each other for the little dates you would have with him, even if you wouldn’t refer to them as such.

And yet you go on promenade with parasols in the afternoon together to stretch your legs. Any yet you share meals together. And yet you have been caught resting beside him by one of your handmaidens which she eventually swore not to tell a soul.

It was the happiest you had been in years. Of course, your servants would do anything to see you smile. The housemaids had even prepared a chamber for him in the event where he’d be needed overnight.

“Is it not dangerous for you to roam to recklessly out there?” You ask, draping your shoulders with a shawl for more warmth. “There have been attacks all over the place.”

“It’s my duty to tend to the wounded and ill, my lady, even if I put myself at risk.” Despite your longstanding friendship, he still opts to be so formal. “What have you heard?”

“They call the attackers vampiric.” You sigh, taking Zayne’s extended hand to help you move to your bed. “Canines elongated and sharp, skin cold yet potent to deceive others with the illusion of warmth. Apparently some are still warm to the touch… I’ve heard they also have a great affinity for blood.”

Zayne only hums as his hands hover over your exposed neckline, awaiting your consent. You absentmindedly nod and glance to the covered window in longing. “Some say they hide in the shadows during the day, as the sun harms them.”

“Almost sounds like they are rather similar to you.” Zayne pokes your cheek with a subtle grin.

“Are you accusing me of consuming blood?” You gasp, holding your hand over your chest. Directly above his own. You swear to yourself that it was not intentional.

“Perhaps you are,” His grin only widens, glad to see you entertained by his jibe. He extracts one of his tools from his bag, placing the cool metal on your chest, moving it around until he hears the soft drumming of your heart. “You might just stalk your way around the streets of town in the dark of night, finding your next victim to extract their very essence.”

Your ears are burning at such close contact. It’s not the first time his hands have been so close to you but it always leaves a lasting affect, sending flutters to your stomach and burning heat to your ears and cheeks.

The way his hazel tinted eyes always flicker between your chest and your gaze shoots shivers down your spine. Sometimes you wonder if his gaze ever lowers to the cleavage of your bosom— but you ought not assume he would be so bold.

“I would only want yours.” You whisper. His hands roam over the expanse of your chest, gently poking and pressing on your skin. It brings your breath to catch deep in your lungs, your pulse slowly jumping.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I— I would…” You quickly blink yourself out of your trance, glancing around the room to gather your thoughts. “I would only want the purest blood! Blood seeped in alcohol must have a nasty taste, no?”

“Perhaps,” Zayne pouts and leans away to store his medical tools in his bag. It takes all your energy not to make a sound, mourning the absence of his touch. “Or maybe you have a taste for the best blood the world can provide.”

“If I did,” You slowly gather your words as you lean closer to him. The way he is seated on your bed prevents him from leaning back. “Would you get it for me?”

Was this dangerously inappropriate? Of course it was!

Did you care? Well…

It did take a lot of courage for you to move so subtly. His reaction only makes your efforts more fruitful. His ears have a slight red blush creeping closer to his face and his eyes— those ethereal eyes— have already glanced off in another direction to avoid your gaze.

“I ought to remind you that this is purely hypothetical.” Zayne gently pokes your forehead. “What occasion requires you to dress so formally?”

Your smile slowly fades. Your aunt had decided to grace you with her presence for luncheon with her eldest son and daughter. In her letter, she referred to it as a moment for you to all bond as a family. As 'true kin’ meaning to support one another.

You hadn’t heard from the woman in almost two years ever since she left you in such a damaged state. You laughed hysterically when your butler reported it to you. Letting bygones be bygones is beneath you.

The rejection letter was halfway through being written when you remembered that any sign of resistance, knowing your aunt and her devilish ways, would only be met with corrupted legal pushback— and you were not in the mental state to handle such strain again.

You had no choice. You have to protect what remains of your family, even if it kills you.

“Luncheon.” You stiffly respond, feeling the icy chill spread through your body. The warmth once shared between the two of you slowly becomes overpowered by pure resentment. “With my aunt.”

Zayne’s lips purse into a straight line. “I see.” He shares your sentiment against your aunt. After all, it was her consistent harassment over the years that drove you to your illness being dramatically exacerbated. It took him threatening her with summoning your attorneys to drive her away, but the damage had already been done.

“When is it?”

Like a sick joke, the bell rings overhead, indicating the arrival of a guest. But you don’t need your butler to tell you who it is.

“I suppose now.” You slowly push yourself to your feet, rejecting Zayne’s caring hands to support you. You return to the cold, resenting tone that held you before his arrival. “Am I to assume you shall remain in the manor until dinner?”

Zayne curtly nods. “I’ll right beside you during luncheon. I just need to clean up here.”

His heart tugs as he watches you leave your chambers, supported by a wooden cane. He has no need to pity you, for he has seen your strength. But he burns to help you in any way he can just to see that cold scowl disappear once and for all.

The luncheon goes as you expect it to.

The formalities pass through smoothly, your aunt pulls you into her embrace and squeezes her grip on you with her knowledge of your physical weakness. Fortunately, it was brief. She still reeks of strong floral perfume, only this time it’s far more potent.

Your cousins were more stiff with their greetings, giving you sneers and subtle jabs about your appearance.

“You still look so sickly,” The younger cousin snickered. The frills on her gown made her look like a peacock. “Perhaps I should send you my stylist to create a new wardrobe for you. One that won’t make you seem so… rude.”

The elder cousin, although younger than you, was silent and devoted more of his energy observing the interior of your manor. Almost as though he was planning what he wished to do with it.

The meals were delectable, as expected of your chefs. They are the best of the best, after all. When you began to host again, once your heath improved just enough to interact with others, your guests— mostly being close family friends— often commended the food provided and asked for recipes so that their chefs could make something similar.

You have always taken great pride in your staff, and always extended your gratitude for them being by your side in the most difficult time in your life. They stood by your side, fed you, bathed you, spoke stories of the current affairs in society to keep you up to speed, and treated you and each other like family to substitute for the one you lost.

Without them, there would barely be anything left of you. Without them, your fortitude to fight would have shattered.

“This is quite the mediocre meal you have provided, dearest.” Your aunt tuts as she waves for your butler. “Take this scrap away. Even a cow would eat better.”

Your jaw ticks but you keep your gaze on the plate beneath you. You finished your plate, and considered the main course rather divine. Perhaps your aunt’s palate was not yet accustomed to more exotic meat.

“I see you haven’t ventured out beyond our country’s bounds.” You comment, seething each word with long-brewing venom. “Your taste buds have likely dulled from all the pork you eat.” One of the things your aunt resents about you is your sharp tongue. It’s why she is so persistent on pinning you down hard enough to legally overwhelm you.

You could see her brows knit together from your peripheral. Just as you intended. The elder of your two cousins merely snickered while the younger scoffed.

“Who is to say this foreign meat is even good?” She sneers, despite having stuffed her mouth with the very meat she insults moments ago.

“You have too much confidence for one who barely interacts with society. Not to mention how dark it is in here, there’s barely any direct light here. I feel sorry for your staff, especially that practitioner.” Her eyes flicker to Zayne, who stands beside your staff.

He occasionally joins you while you eat just to keep close in case your agitations harm you. It isn’t uncommon for your illness to strike you at random, so he must have attended to keep an eye on you.

“Honestly, with the way you brood, I doubt anyone would want to be in your presence.” That would have struck a nerve if it was the first time she had mentioned it.

Your eyes grew painfully delicate in the presence of the sun— constantly burning or drowning in tears or drying up completely if you were outside for too long. The same applied to your skin. It began to physically ache to feel its rays on you. The only solution was to reduce the light exposed to you as much as possible.

“Such a shame, indeed. I truly am not like you, dearest cousin.” You taunt as your gaze strikes her with contempt. “I believe it is only fair you dance around the public grounds under the sun while you cozy up with all the lords of the land. You ought to give them a visit on a promenade. I am sure one will be mad enough to raise your skirts.”

Just as your butler coughs back a chuckle from your callousness, she slams her hand on the table with faux tears brimming in her eyes. “You foul—“

“Now, dearest,” Your aunt cuts in, tilting her head in that same condescending way as she did all those years ago. “You ought not be so cruel to your cousin. After all, she is the closest you’ll ever have to a sister.”

“She is not my sister.” You are quick to interject her, silently cursing yourself for reacting so quickly. That only seems to fuel your aunt more.

“She is your kin.” Those eyes of hers twinkle, making it known that she’s seen you break just enough to poke at your pride even more. “You are the last of your father’s legacy, and yet you are barely fit to claim a dowry.”

From the corner of your eye, you see your butler, footmen, and maids twitch in agitation. You subtly raise your hand beneath the table, keeping them at bay.

“You are just moments from breaching the territory of a spinster, my dear.” Her false concern is slowly shifting into jeers of spite. Almost as if she waited those eight years to pin you down. “You have no match, no suitor. You cannot possibly think you can claim what remains of the fortune. You are a woman and your brother is gone.”

Your eye twitches at the mention of your brother, but you force yourself to maintain composure. “As a woman, your duty is to get a husband so that he may take over the title. So that you may pass down your forefathers’ legacy. Though that may not be a present option. Not when you can barely walk on your own without a cane and a maid by your hand.”

Through gritted teeth, you force yourself to speak. “You have no privilege to discriminate me for a hereditary illness. I had no involvement in living this way.”

“Oh yes, dearest.” Your aunt coos in that damned sneer. “We have all been praying for you all these years for your speedy recovery. But it does not seem that you have fared any better.”

You can feel yourself getting stiff with agitation. Your chest squeezes in tight, your breaths constrain and become shallow enough for the rise and fall of your torso to be visible and quick. You can hear the snickers from your cousins but they drown out into a buzz of noise.

You can see your aunt’s lips move but you hear no words. Her eyes narrow, her brows raise in pity as her smile widens just enough to see her gums so harshly pink that it feels unnatural to see. Her hands follow her words, flicking with each intonation of her voice, all so condescending, all so vile.

The pounding in your chest grows louder and louder, thumping into your head so harshly that you can feel it. Pulses of pain spread through your mind as hot flashes surge beneath your skin. It’s too much. Your corset feels tight around you, your shawl sets your skin ablaze in discomfort with every breath you take. But you can’t move your hands to take it off.

You’re trapped to only listen to your aunt break you down to pieces, just as she had all those years ago. To embarrass you, to harm you, to shatter you again and again and again until she is sure there is nothing left but a hollow shell that she can steal from.

“You are the blood of your father’s blood. But your father was strong. Like your cousins are.” Mentioning him so crassly brings your hand to tighten around the sharp knife beneath you. She has no right to even utter his name. None. “Our blood gives us the powers to wield such a privilege of the title Count. And you ought to have the same too… if it weren’t for those sickly genes from your mother—“

Before you can comprehend it, your body moves for you in spite of the inferno of agony driving you to crumble. Your hand tightly grips the knife as you charge to your aunt, vision blurred with tears and her neck being the only clear sight before you. One single cleave will silence her torment forever.

Your tea gown flows as you glide to her like a vengeful ghost, arm raised just high enough for the blade to glimmer in the air. “You shall speak no word of my mother, you wretch!”

Everything from that moment happens so quickly. The screams from your cousins, your aunt and the staff reign chaos in the dining hall. Clamouring footsteps and scraping chairs thunder on the floor as hands reach out to you, desperate to hold you back from committing an act you may well regret.

Tears fall from your eyes as you draw closer to your aunt, whose face is completely distorted with absolute fear and terror. Her hands shield her face and turns away, granting you full access to the veins surging beneath her skin.

One cleave.

Just one cleave and that crone is dead.

All of a sudden, air fills your chest and snaps you out of your homicidal daze. Your head is tucked securely into a broad chest, while strong arms wrap around you tightly engulfing you in his scent. Zayne’s hold on you does not hurt as much as your body does from the overexertion devoted to murdering that woman.

You can just barely hear her cursing you, panting and screaming for the staff to call for her carriage. You can hear your cousins, one wailing for her mother while the other curses you to damnation. You couldn’t care less.

Those gulps of air shiver into sobs as more tears flow from your eyes, from the pain of your muscles constraining and the grief of your beloved family.

You hear your name whispered to you in a hushed voice. “Breathe. Breathe, my lady.” Zayne’s voice brings back the warmth you shared just hours earlier. Just enough to soothe you, but not enough to silence your fury.

“I’ll kill you.” You pulled your head from his embrace to face your aunt once more. “You vicious dog, I will kill you if it is the last thing I do in this mortal body!”

You watch your aunt and cousins scurry towards the doors leading to the entrance and follow them with as much strength as your weakened body can allow. You watch them trip over each other, ignoring the guiding hands of your butler and physician in case you lose your balance. They don’t try to stop you.

“I will tear you limb from limb and end the bloodline by this very hand, I swear it! You will never claim the title of Count, and you will never claim this manor so long as I live!” As they enter the carriage, your aunt turns to you with a scornful smile on her face. The luncheon may not have ended as she desired but there is at least satisfaction from rousing you to anger.

You collapse into Zayne’s arms once the doors completely close, shielding you from the light and the eyes of your kin. Tears blind you in agony, the surging throbs of your body spread until you can barely feel him lift you into his arms.

Your sobs are the only thing you can hear until his voice calls out to you once more.

“I’m here, my lady.” Only then do you realise that you have been returned to your chambers, enveloped in his arms. His scarred hands, both rough in texture and gentle in touch, stroke your skin lightly just to soothe you.

“I need— I must—“

“You must do nothing.” Zayne hums, pressing his cheek on top of your head. Your handmaidens silently entered your chambers to leave a comfortable dress for you to wear instead of the tea gown constricting you and overstimulating you. Once they have settled your garments, they leave as quietly as they came.

“I acted out of turn—“ You turn to face him, only to be stricken with more agony from such a quick movement.

“You were provoked.” Zayne urges with an unusual strain to his voice. His attempt to suppress his anger somehow brought comfort to you. To see him care so immensely for you was heartwarming. “She had tapped into the most sensitive topics to harm you. Of course you responded that way. You were hurt.”

“The manor is bound to fall into her hands from that reckless act alone.” You shivered, almost seeing that smug look on her face should she stand victor in the battle that has lasted a decade. “I am only left to pray that those vampiric folk consume them, or worse.”

Zayne can only listen to you cry as he holds you. As much as it would satisfy him to handle them himself, you are his priority first and foremost.

“My lady—“

“My clothes,” You murmur, feeling the discomfort of your flesh being tied up so uncomfortably in your garments. You were just fine earlier, why do you feel so constricted now? You tug your shawl off your shoulders and reach for the silk strings at your waist to tug out the knot. “I need to take it off, it’s too much.”

“I’ll call for a handmaiden.”

“No!” You shriek, harshly tugging away but it just won’t budge. Your body still aches with the need to free yourself from the constraints, bringing tears to your eyes once more. “You have touched most every part of me from my bosom to my ankles, you have seen it all. I need you Zayne, pray, I need your help.”

It is truly difficult to resist you when your eyes brim with tears and pure desperation scorns you. He has to help you. He has to. Even if it is ungentlemanly. He is a gentleman, don’t get him wrong, but you come first.

His hands rest on your shoulders and push your gown slowly until he reaches your waist where the knot is securely tied. He tries as best as he can not to listen to your frustrated pants and instead concentrate on the task at hand.

He smoothly undoes the knot, eyes fluttering at the sound of your relief. He can only imagine how hard it was for you to sit through such a horrid luncheon like that. If it weren’t for his logic, he would have dealt with them before you lost your temper.

Zayne slides your gown further down your body until it reached your hips. “Stand for me, my lady.” You slide off your bed without question, allowing for your gown to slip off your form and pile on the floor.

Still too overstimulated to care, you turn around and gesture for Zayne to help you with your corset and the rest of your undergarments. Upon the glimpse of your back, he immediately feels a familiar rise of arousal burn within him. Damn it.

Something about how delicate yet strong your back looks just riles him up. Each muscle is so defined yet soft in the way you move, your posture is always so poised, even the way you’re turning to glare at him right now is attractive.

“If you cannot assist me further, please summon my hand—“ Nope, nope, nope, he won’t allow it.

“I can do it.” He clears his throat and adjusts his pants to conceal the tent.

Zayne scoots closer to you, ensuring his growing erection remains hidden enough for him to undo the strings of your corset outside of your sight. He works quick and smooth, gently pulling at the knots to ensure you aren’t hurt. Piece by piece, he helps you remove your garments until you stand nude above him. He can only pray that his precum doesn’t leak into his slacks.

He reaches for your looser gown and swiftly slides it over your head. He watches the smooth fabric slide down your collarbones, down your breasts, covering your waist and hips until it reaches the ground with a gentle tap.

Only then can he exhale the air caught in his throat. Only then can he swallow the urges surging within him from your scent alone. A scent so rich that he had to clamp his tongue with his teeth.

“That should do it,” He grits, smoothing out the fabric around your waist. He can’t help but keep his hands on you there. It just feels right.

“Thank you.” Silence stretches between the two of you before you sigh. “I shall have to summon my attorney to make a plan. That woman will surely use that event against me.”

“I am sure you will be able to find your way to victory.” He assures you. “You’ve fought battles worse than one to claim a title.”

“I am a woman, Zayne.” You scoff. “Unless I am able to outlive them all, there is little I can do without entering criminal territory. It seems I have already acclimatised myself to that path.”

He hums in agreement, swallowing the laugh that almost escaped his lips. His thumbs gently massage your waist, ignoring how dangerously intimate the gesture is. You seem to ignore it too, fully engulfed in need to feel secure. To engulfed in the desire you have fruitlessly tried to keep at bay.

You are attracted to Zayne. How could you not be?

For a man so handsome, so respectful, so empathetic and devoted to seeing you return to better health, it is only fair that you have begun to dream of him. That you have begun to feel your core ache and burn for him, to leave you soaked in desire so much so that you’ve spent nights moaning his name into your pillow.

It is an impulse you do your best to ignore, but with the way he holds you so gently, with so much reverence, it truly is hard to ignore the growing heat in your core. You can only pray he doesn’t notice.

“You ought to get some rest.” He advises, not as your companion but as your medical advisor. He glances out the covered windows to see the light filtering into your room. It’s much warmer. It must be dusk already. “I shall be leaving soon as well.”

You immediately step away from him touch, swiftly turning to show your shock and fear. But it’s always been that way.

In daylight, he is yours. Confined with you in the manor so that he can ensure you are well. The only reason why he only arrived at noon today was because he had other patients to attend to. Once the sun sets beneath the horizon, the night claims him. And you can never understand why.

You hated that.

You were able to handle your time beyond dusk well, you had your own tasks to attend to as the regent of your household— the title being temporary due to the special nature of your case. You had a society to attend to, people to care for and fund. You had a life ahead of you.

But it was at risk of being taken from you. Your life nearly slipped from your hands if it wasn’t for his skilled assistance. Your motivation and discipline was dwindling before he gave you a reason to keep going. He reminded you of your compassion. He reminded you of how strong your bond with your staff was, and how that devotion extended to the people you were raised to uplift.

His presence in the daylight’s torture was your solace and his absence in the night’s embrace was your silence. But you want no more of that exchange.

You want to be selfish. You want him. In both dawn and dusk.

“And if I suffer from any pain?” You spoke in a hushed tone, anointing your words with distaste. You understood his duties and his need for rest, but he could do it here. With you. “Where will I receive the help I need?”

Zayne merely gifted you a small smile as he took his bag. “The night is yours to claim, my lady. You can send for me.”

“The night is dangerous to roam these days.” You scowl at the growing distance between you. The shiver of ice hardens over your flesh once more. You hate how your comfort and warmth comes and goes with his presence. But without his service, his care, his companionship… what would you be then?

“Then I shall see you tomorrow morning.” He bows his head and turns to the hallway before him. Keeping his gaze ahead, Zayne’s voice drops an octave. “Don’t go outside tonight.”

Without another word, he stalks into the candlelit hallway leaving you alone once more.

The night is silent after he leaves. You’re antsy, brooding, on the verge of tears— not because he isn’t with you, no. Because the scandal of a luncheon you had is now plaguing your mind. You have been blaming yourself through tears, trying to find reason in your spur of madness.

Your butler and handmaidens struggled to calm you and soothe you, but the teas they brewed and the stories they told of similar situations they had seen somewhat put your nerves at ease. Just enough to keep you out of harm’s way.

Staring at the fire pit, you lounge in the sitting room. Your mind is racing with ways to cover up your sins. You know your aunt is losing grip on her finances and yet still splurges to satisfy the whims of your cousins. You could bribe her. But then she would blackmail you and demand more until she’s sucked your accounts dry.

You could actually kill her. But you cannot do it directly, you may not have the physical strength. To even out the hypothetical grounds, if you did, your persecution would drive your family name across the mud. And you’d be stripped of your assets regardless.

Each and every plan you concoct results in you ultimately losing or being forced to sacrifice something too vital to you. The only logical option would be to outlive at least the elder cousin. But since he is five years your junior you have your doubts, especially when you take your illness and physical weakness into account.

The painting of you, your parents and your brother hands high above you. Their gazes were so warm back then. You would often see them in your dreams in your weakest hours, urging you to keep going. To fight. You have to keep going. You just have to.

You can’t let them win. You have to honour your family and claim what is yours.

The clock loudly chimes, indicating it is now midnight. Your butler swiftly collects your empty cup and bows. “I shall be taking my leave, as will the rest of the staff, my lady. Need I assist you to your chambers?”

“No, thank you.” You smile at the family portrait, gesturing to the cane beside you. “I have more than enough help right here.”

Glancing at the portrait, your butler smiles. “Rest well, my lady.”

You listen to his footsteps fade into the manor, and once there is complete silence once more, you rise to your feet. Your grip on your cane is tight from your body still being in shock. Your conviction, however, is stronger.

Your plan is both reckless and dangerous, you know. But you have no other choice.

You pace to the main entrance of the manor, sharply glancing at the footman by the door.

“I trust that you will keep this to yourself?” You whisper and he nods affirmatively. He opens the large door, welcoming the nightly gust to kiss your skin in greeting. You can almost smell the eery musk in the air. The scent of danger. Regardless, you step out, tugging fiddling with the sleeve of your overcoat.

“Safe travels, my lady.” The footman mutters as the doors close once more. Your plan is unfolding perfectly.

What plan you ask?

Locating Zayne, of course.

Well, to be fair, it was not just that.

You intend to keep an eye on the process of your funds being sent off to infirmaries, churches, schools, and other places that require it. The transaction on your end has been successful from the report of your maids but there is something interfering with the receiving end in the town.

So you opted to investigate it yourself, outside of their knowledge. It puts you at a great and dangerous risk, but that is what you have Zayne for should you find him on time. You have also stored some of your medication in your purse as well, just in case things do end up going wrong but you plan to leave it in your carriage since the trip should be brief.

The carriage speeds into the town, illuminated by lanterns and candles radiating from the windows of the townhouses along the road. From what you recall during your occasional visits, it should be bustling with people, whether to attend festivals or for the more secretive ventures to the brothels.

The streets are empty and quiet. One thing you have never seen before in all your years.

Your carriage awaits your return outside the main church. You had letters sent to the reverend, informing him of your incoming presence so he would be expecting you.

You push the arcane wooden doors open to be greeted with an eery quiet. Familiar to the holy silence you would hear whenever you visited to donate funds to support those in need, but far more disorienting.

“Reverend.” You call out, only to hear your voice echo through the walls. Your shoes click on the wooden floor with each step as you get closer to the altar. You had seen many of the ladies around your age marry here. You now scoff at the idea of ever getting married. You’re too old and you’ve lost the taste for entertaining suitors.

“Reverend?” You call again to receive not silence, but a scream.

A loud shriek that could be mistaken for one that a debutante would make if her dress were soiled. To your surprise, the very reverend you were waiting for stumbles into the hall both petrified and disheveled, doing what appeared to be adjusting his pants.

“I condemn you, devil!” He cries before he notices you. He pauses to catch his breath and straightens his robes. “Ah, my lady, now is truly not the time—“

“What is going on here?” You ask, scrutinising his panicked state. “What are you running from?”

“Vampire, my lady!” He shouts, gripping your shoulders to push you away. “There is a vampire that has breached these holy grounds, it just cannot be—“

In a flash his hands fall with him to the floor, pinned by what looks like a sharpened crucifix. He screams of agony make your ears ring. “Damn you, you demon!”

You turn to see who he curses, with slight fear rising up your spine. Adorned in black with specks of blood staining the fabric with eyes as green as an ember and as brown as the soil, the vampire stops in his tracks fully gazing on you.

“Zayne,” You exhale, unable to recognise the feeling behind your heart punching your bones. Your palms are getting clammy, your breath is growing more ragged, and yet your core burns with unsanctioned desire.

“My lady.” He sounds breathless, as if he was looking at you for the first time. Just as he parts his lips, his gaze averts to the reverend behind you.

“So this is what’s gotten you so distracted.” You hear him chuckle before he clasps your wrist with his bloodied hands and drags you outside.

The cool winter wind sends shocks of ice cold shivers down your spine as snowflakes flutter onto your skin. You had almost forgotten it was the middle of winter. The harsh wind blows your overcoat open, exposing you loose gown to the freezing elements.

“Revered, unhand me!” You tug at his grip only to struggle as he pulls you down the stairs. A sharp jasmine scented gust rushes past you at the force dragging you away severs completely. You glance down to see his hand still on you but completely sliced from the rest of his body.

Utterly shocked, you shriek and fling your arm to force the hand off of you. A trail of blood drips into the snow, growing bigger and bigger until you see Zayne’s form hunched over the reverend, loud gnawing noises being the only thing you can hear.

“Zayne,” You whisper, only for your voice to fall upon deaf ears. “Zayne!”

His movements stiffen completely as he turns to face you. Blood is stricken across his face and dripping from his abnormally sharpened canines. His skin almost glistens in the cold dead of night, and those divine hazel eyes just look brighter.

Could it be?

Zayne always leaves the manor at night. He rarely eats when he’s with you and when he does, it is just barely enough to keep him satiated. He sometimes refers to himself as a vegetarian even though he consumes animal meat. He never sets foot outside without something to give him shade, almost like the sun harms him.

It could not possibly be. You’ve seen his ears turn red when he gets flustered. Although his hands are mostly cold, you’ve felt his warmth. But some vampires don’t become as cold as ice. It is rare but it’s possible.

The roads all lead to one answer. He is a vampire.

“My lady, it isn’t safe for you here.” Zayne wipes the blood off his lips onto his sleeve. He slowly reaches you, his steps crunching marks into the snow. You hadn’t realised how overpowering his height actually is until now. Until now, you didn’t realise how terrifying his gaze is, how almost obvious it was.

You can hear the reverend gurgling behind you, clearly still clawing at what remains of his liveliness. Zayne did that much in just seconds. He could have consumed you at any given moment. Whenever he checked your pulse. Whenever he nursed you. When he drew blood from your flesh. Whenever he saw you bare before him. Whenever you shared the most intimate looks and touches.

And yet he never did.

“I—“ Your chest squeezes harshly, like hundreds of pins stabbing at your heart continuously. You gasp, watching your gaze reach the black moonlight sky as you fall to the ground.

You can’t feel your body. You can barely hear Zayne calling your name. Your eyes dart around his face as he cradles you in his embrace, his blood stained canines glistening as his lips frantically move in a repetitive pattern.

Your vision slowly blurs and darkens, moment by moment. It’s almost peaceful. You can’t possibly allow it. You must fight on. But you feel so warm in his embrace. So safe.

With the waning remnants of strength left in you, your hand gently cups his cheek, staining your fingers with the blood that struck his face.

“You…” The whisper is hoarse and thick with gratitude for him, fear for the future of your home, and resentment for all that could be taken from you. “So, so beautiful.”

“My lady, please.” Zayne’s voice cracks as he begs, his eyes welling up with tears. “You must stay strong. Maintain your strength. Overcome this shock, I beg of you!”

The pain only engulfs you more. “If I cannot avenge my family… if I cannot outlive them…” You worry as your grip tightens on his cheek. It takes only seconds before a perilous idea strikes his mind.

It is risky, truly, it is. But he is running rather short for time. He knows of your ambitions and your deepest desires. He can give that to you. He can. But it would only give you something similar to the illness you already face. You may never be able to step into the graces of the sun again.

If your grit stays true and strong, Zayne may have no other choice.

“My lady, you can.” He whispers, canines revealing themselves with his deluded smile. So long as he restricts himself from taking too much, you will live. He just has to hold himself back just a bit longer. “You have to choice to live. Eternally. With me. We can outlive your relatives. Or kill them if it fancies you. You can keep your title. But only if you are willing. I don’t want to take your life from you.”

You slowly blink as his eyes become the only thing you can clearly see. Your heart drums against your chest as you weigh the options. You could live forever. But you’d never see the sun again. You may just outlive your staff too. But to protect your family name, to avenge yourself, and to have Zayne be yours eternally… to be like him would not be much different from how you are now.

You were never going to truly recover. You’d always be a fraction of who you once were. Your aunt was right. But this? This is an opportunity. A chance to truly heal, even if your only connection to your family will be the legacy you live through. You had a shot and setting things right once and for all.

With a weakened smile your eyes fluttered as you whispered your final words as a mortal. “Give me the tools to avenge my blood.”

The following seconds are pure agony. The last thing you see is Zayne apologetically smiling with you. The last thing you feel are his lips gently pressing on your forehead. The last thing you hear, that gives your heart the sharpest twinge, “I love you.”

Once his teeth sink deep into your neck, your vision darkens completely.

There is silence. And then there is pain.

Your body burns like it’s caught up in flames, white hot and striking your every nerve. Your lips tear open to scream but no voice or air comes out. Your nails claw at his flesh, to ground whatever sinking life is in you. It's endless, loud, and violent until it quiets down completely.

And then there is a new form of silence.

You can hear distant bells chime while they flow with the winter wind. You can see the smallest, most intricate details of a falling snowflake. You can smell the scent him. You can feel his grip on you tighten, gently shaking you to see if he didn’t go too far. You can hear his honeyed voice call your name in fear and worship.

You blink and see those hazel eyes, now more beautiful than before.

“My lady?” His voice is as clear as the morning serenade of the birds. He looks even more handsome now. It shoots pulses of need straight to your core. Along with that, comes a fresh sense of confidence like a coat of skin over your strengthened skin. You no longer feel pain with every movement.

Your hand squeezes his cheek to test your strength, pinching harder and harder until he yelps. “My lady, you must tell me if you’re alright—“

Ignoring your inhibitions, you pull Zayne down to your embrace, pressing your lips right onto his. His lips are soft like pillows and, if not for the taste of your blood, you’d assume he tastes sweet. It barely takes seconds for him to respond with equal fervour, wrapping his arms round your waist.

Your tongue pokes between his lips and he grants you access with a hushed moan, leaning forward to push you deeper into the snow. The cold is no longer as biting as it use to be. It doesn’t bother you at all now. The pain in your body has silenced. It’s been so long since you felt so at ease.

Is this what pleasure feels like? Is it the burning feeling in your chest? Is it the way that your hands rush to feel more of him like you won’t get the chance again? Is it the way you both move together in a lustful dance, sharing your hushed noises of pleasure and need together?

Perhaps it’s all of it. Perhaps there’s even more.

“Zayne.” You pant as you pull away, strings of saliva connect you to him.

“My lady.” He whispers with reverence laced in his tone. His hands caress you with care. He must be in heaven. That kiss… not only did it send signals straight to his cock to rise harder than it has ever been before, leaving him near shaking.

In the quiet cold, he can’t help but desire you now more than ever. To taste you, to feel you above him until you drive yourselves mad with pleasure. It’s an insatiable desire and yet he wants it. He needs you.

You can definitely feel his erection. And that only makes your arousal deepen for him. You were already grinding on him the moment your kiss had deepened. You press wet kisses all over his face, reaching for his jaw and neck as your hands explore the expanse of his clothed back.

“My lady,” Zayne whines, but tilts his head just enough to give you the access you need to torment him with your affections. It seems his neck is rather sensitive to your ministrations. “You must contain yourself. We are still outside.”

You can feel your canines, now sharper than before, prodding your lower lip. It feels so unfamiliar yet so beautifully natural. You would grow accustomed to this change eventually, you’d go accustomed to this new strength that makes you feel so alive. You could do anything, be anything. Have anything. You starved for it. And now you can get it.

“The only person close enough to spread word of our misbehaviour is already dead.” You whisper in a tone all too erotic for Zayne not to moan at the sound of. “I cannot hear his pulse.” You are correct, the reverend had long taken his final breath before Zayne had bitten you.

Before he had turned you into a stronger version of yourself. A vampire, if you will.

The scent of the reverend’s blood sets off a deep, voracious craving within you to hunt down any person you can find and consume them. You wanted to devour every damned member of society that wronged you. It cannot compare, however, to the ravenous desire for him.

“I must return you to the manor,” Zayne tuts, bringing your lips to his for another lascivious kiss. Your tongues dance frantically, hands slowly reaching lower to your chest before he pulls away. “Your bloodlust will drive you to attack innocents.”

“But what about the reverend, I can—“

“You won’t consume something as tainted as that.” He cuts in, pressing a peck on your nose. “He has been manipulating people, and embezzling the very funds you so graciously donated. You don’t deserve something as vile as that.”

He attacks your neck with kisses, pulling gentle sighs from you as his hands venture to your waist. “After all, I can only give you the purest blood. The most delectable, nourishing blood that world can provide. Come now, my lady, we must get you home.”

You’re surprised he remembered that little joke you shared earlier. You’re more surprised of how it unfolded to become your fate. Consuming the blood of others to satiate yourself. You can only hope that your staff will still keep you close and care for you and let you return the favour now that you’re stronger.

“The carriage is just nearby,” You eventually give in, pointing in the direction of where you should go. Zayne wastes no time in picking you up in his arms as if you are his bride and venturing to get you to safety.

The trip is not long. It does not take long to return to the manor. It does not take long to sneak past your staffs chambers, all of them still being asleep. It does not take long for you to reach your chambers. It does not take long for his lips to be on yours once more.

The coats and shoes had long been abandoned on the floor. Your fireplace had been vigorously been prepared by him to keep you as warm as possible, still treating you with care and affection as he always has.

Hushed moans fill the crackling silence of your bedchambers with rustling clothing and wandering hands reaching to all the places that would be deemed scandalous to touch. But your concerns for poise are long gone.

You pull away from his embrace, gliding your tongue down his neck to suckle your mark onto his flesh and lean back only to see the mark fade as quickly as it got there.

“We tend to heal rather quickly.” He sheepishly smiles. “For example,” He takes your wrist and suckles hard on your skin. You can feel his tongue glide over your skin as his eyes pierce yours, arousing you all the more. Once he pulls away, you can already see the bruise starting to fade.

“You strength has dramatically improved, along with your agility and endurance.” He explains as he presses hot kisses on your skin. “You can run faster, you can protect yourself in any situation of danger,” His hands squeeze your waist harder than before as he nuzzles his nose into your skin, inhaling your scent.

“You can last much longer in more intimate experiences too.”

Your eyes almost twinkle at the sound of that. You aren’t ignorant of what you’re about to do. You’re more than old enough to have invested in the tools necessary to give yourself pleasure in the absence of a person to do it for you. But now you wanted to get a taste of pleasure with him.

“I want to test that out.” Your voice comes out sultry and dripping with need. He can’t even resist you if he tried. You turn around, gesturing to the gentle knot tied at the back of your gown. “I may need your assistance.”

Zayne moans at the sight, his cock violently twitching and leaking in the confines of his pants. “Of course, my lady.” His patience draws painfully thin as his pulls the knot apart to allow your gown to flow, still accentuating your figure.

His hands gently pull at your neckline until your gown falls to the floor. He rushes to pull off his garments, piece by piece until you both stand nude together, warm and vibrating with need. His hands subconsciously reach to cover the scars running up both his arms, having forgotten they were there.

“Those scars,” You whisper, reaching for his hands. “May I?”

Zayne rarely allows anyone to look at his arms. But for you? He trusts you to be gentle.

Your fingers touch each and every one, grazing over the bumps and roughened skin and feeling the contrast between scar tissue and skin. There is no pity in your eyes, only wonder and care.

“You don’t think they’re unsightly?”

“No,” You shake your head, bringing his forearm to your lips. You press a gentle kiss onto one of his scars, ensuring his gaze holds yours. “I think they’re very beautiful. In fact, if we had met when we were younger, I would have drawn birds and leaves on them every single day just to show how pretty they are.”

That makes Zayne laugh, releasing the tension held tight in his shoulders. You always knew how to grace him with your charm when he least expected it. He would let you draw on his scars any moment you wanted to, kiss and admire them whenever you needed to.

“You can draw on them if you’d like.” He offers, guiding you to your bed before he gently lays you down.

“Please, I’ve outgrown that passion.” You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. You peck his lips. “I’d like to try other things with you.”

“Oh?” He teases, returning your peck with a longer kiss. “Like what, my lady?”

“Perhaps this.” You gently pull him to your lips, grinding your hips against his erection. His moans softly muffle in your mouth as he moves in tandem with you. His tongue glides over your lips as his hands gently knead at your breasts, pulling sweet moans from your lips.

Your bodies fit so close together like puzzle pieces, it would be a crime to let go. Drops of precum drips and spreads around your skin, making you very much aware of how needy he is for you. He’s just so big, so hard, he’s dripping and twitching just desperate to feel you in every way he can.

“My lady, please.” Zayne sigh on your lips, eyes squeezing shut. You just appear so much more lively, he has never seen you smile so much before. He has never seen such serenity in your eyes. He wants to give you more, and ensure you never suffer again.

“What’s wrong?” You grin, ghosting your fingers down his back. From the way his cock twitched again, more aggressively than the last time, he definitely enjoyed it. “You seem so flustered.”

“Don’t be a tease.” He rasps, averting his gaze from you. Perhaps he ought to give you the same sensation. He bares his fangs, sharp and glistening with drool from his hunger for you.

His lips explore your neck, tasting your skin, whining at your taste. He licks a stripe of hot saliva down your collarbones right to your breasts. He latches to your hardened nipple, swirling his tongue around the bud while his hand massages the other.

“I want to show you how much pleasure you can have,” He nips your breasts with his canines, burying his face deep in your cleavage. “I want to give you everything I have. May I?”

Open mouth kisses trail your skin in a pattern down from your breasts right to your hips. His hands reach down to your thighs, caressing you gently. He must know just how much it riles you up from that smirk plastered on his face.

Your face feels hot. Perhaps it’s because of the fire burning on the other side of the room, maybe it’s your arousal spreading so far around your body you can barely think. You’re practically dripping, you can feel it start to soak the bedding beneath you.

Your desire for him only intensifies the further down he goes until he rests his head between your legs. His nose dips close to your entrance, slowly inhaling deep as if the most heavenly scent was within you. A soft moan escapes his lips as his hands stroke your thighs with unconditional adoration.

“May I pleasure you, my lady?” He asks again, eyes glistening from the shine of the flames illuminating the room. How could you deny yourself such joy? You deserve to give yourself everything.

Your hands find purchase in his soft black locks and push his head closer and closer to your soaked cunt. “Of course you may,” You sigh, leaning back on the silk pillows behind you. Just for a better view. “Don’t hold back.”

My, oh my, does he take that seriously.

Zayne’s tongue slides up both sides of your folds just to get a light shiver out of you. His fingers knead your thighs to soothe your nerves while he teases you. Is it to get you trembling with need? Of course not, he would never torment you that way. Yet.

His tongue circles your entrance, gathering as much of your dripping slick as he can, relishing in his tastebuds awakening to savour you completely. “Goodness, my lady, you taste divine.” He groans from between your legs.

You can’t help but sink your teeth into your arm to withhold the noises threatening to come out. All that teasing is just so stimulating. He’s barely doing anything and yet it feels so good.

“Is that so?” You huff. He nods frantically, swiping his tongue up and down, sliding gingerly over your throbbing clit, spreading your arousal all over you. It’s utterly riveting, your legs instinctively twitch in his grip and close in on him only to be pushed back open.

Zayne tuts to your legs, pressing hot, wet kisses on you, mouthing and spreading your slick all over your skin. “Don’t move, my love.” He murmurs, licking long lines up to your knees. The sight is so erotic that you can feel more of your arousal gush from within you. Has he always been this lewd?

“Continue teasing me and I might writhe.” You struggle to bite back, shivering and whimpering from his ministrations. His fingers circle your entrance like his tongue did, occasionally pushing inside bit by bit before pulling away.

Those hazel eyes glance up to admire you, despite your disheveled state. So beautiful, so much more powerful now that you feel so much better. He’s most grateful that the made the call to turn you, consequences be damned.

His lips curl as he takes your clit in his mouth, gently flicking his tongue at your bud. His fingers tease and swirl over your entrance before pushing his fingers inside, slowly spreading them open to stretch you out.

“O-Oh, god,” Your eyes flutter shut as your fingers tug at his hair. That only fuels Zayne to do more. His fingers push in and out of you, moving faster in his pace. Your slick gushes out of you like a waterfall, overwhelmed by the pleasure being amplified by your newfound strength.

Zayne hums into your pussy, slurping away at your clit. As your thighs tremble, potentially indicating your climax, he pulls away with a soft kiss. He can feel your slick dripping down his chin. It’s all too good to be true. Devouring you, pleasing you, seeing you so healthy and well after years of bearing witness to your suffering.

To see you so joyful and pleased just gets him harder. He can’t help but grind his hips into the bedding, losing the last of his composure and discipline.

“Does it feel good?” He already knows it does. He just wants to hear it from you. You nod, panting out soft moans, but that isn’t enough.

You yelp from the pain of him nipping your inner thighs with his sharp fangs. “I need you to tell me, my lady. Does it feel good?”

He’s such a tease. You always knew he had a flirtatious streak but you never knew he’d be a tease like this. “Damn you, Zayne, it feels wonderful.”

“I’m glad.” He muses, pressing kisses onto your skin. He moves closer and closer to your weeping pussy, fingers still deep inside curling until he finds just what he’s looking for.

One push is all it takes to have your head thrown back with the loudest, most melodic moan he’s heard from you. You tug his hair hard, bringing his hips to buck right into the sheets. Electric currents shoot up his spine, just strong enough to make him so so close that he could cum on the spot.

But he can’t. He must get you to cum first. He has to bear witness to you unwinding to pure pleasure.

His fingers slip out of you to be replaced by his tongue. He just has to taste the source. His tongue curves just right, slurping up your juices as if it is holy water, licking up whatever falls down his chin and attacking your cunt like a man starved.

He would rather consume you like this on his knees for eternity. Your taste alone satiates him more than blood ever would.

His fangs gently prod your swollen folds, only adding on to the relentless stimulation from his tongue fucking your hole and his fingers rubbing calloused circles on your clit. The bed rocks from his body working to please his own desperate needs, his moans go straight into you relentless and desperate to give you more.

“Zayne!” Your cries bounce of the walls of your bedchambers as you tug and pull him closer, so much closer. It just feels so divine. Just as divine as all the stories you’d read if not better. A tight coil stretches within you, growing hotter and tighter by the second. “It feels so good, I’m about to—“

“Cum?” His honeyed voice is literally seeped in arousal in such a lustful rasp.”By all means, my lady, give in to your desires.”

He just keeps moving so fast and so intensely you can barely think. Switching between his tongue and fingers, the overwhelming pleasure pulls your back into a feline arch as your climax rushes over you like a storm.

Despite your cries, Zayne takes it as a signal to give you more. He does not stop his relentless ministrations, slurping all your juices, nuzzling his face as deeply as your body will allow him to.

It’s too much. Your clit just stings from the overabundance of pleasure and yet you keep pushing him closer to you to get more. You tug and pull at his hair, moaning his name like a prayer and it might as well be if it means this satisfaction is eternal.

Still, you want more.

You pull him away from you reluctantly, empathising with his whines to continue. “Come to me.” You don’t have to tel him twice.

Zayne crawls atop your form, dropping wet, cum-slick kisses along your skin. He stops at your neck, where the bite marks have almost healed completely, and licks his way up slowly, slowly, until he locks onto your lips once more.

You can taste your essence fall onto your tongue, exploring his taste and inhaling his scent like air. You’re still vibrating from the aftershocks of your climax, so warm and open to receive much more.

Your hand reaches for his cock, hard and throbbing from his neglect to satiate himself. It’s so hot to the touch, so large in your hands that you wonder if you’d ever be able to take him in your mouth, let alone your pussy despite how much it soaks for him.

“My lady, you don’t have to worry about my needs.” Zayne whimpers right into your ear as your grip on his shaft tightens. With the movement your position will allow, you stroke his length and memorise each detail you encounter with your fingers.

You count two veins running from his base and joining before they kiss his reddened tip. His thickness alone makes your mouth water and your cunt soak with even more arousal as if you hadn’t just cum moments ago. You press your lips on his cheek as you stroke him, grinding your hips against his cock, soaking him in your desire.

“I want to.” You whisper, licking his lower lip. “We ought to please each other, no?”

Your eyes, damn you, your eyes draw him in and hold him captive in your embrace. If not for your charm and luring voice, your eyes alone would bring him to his knees and have him willingly deliver the world to your hands.

Zayne is utterly spellbound and he would not want to be anywhere else.

“Are you sure, my lady?” He cautions, taking your hand in his to kiss. “If you say yes, I am not sure if I’ll be able to stop.”

That alone makes your walls clench. “Good. I’m very sure.” You find new comfort in his lips. The manner in which he moves in tandem with you seems as though you were made for each other, like two pieces fitting into one. It’s hot, it’s passionate, it’s perfection seeped in desire.

He aligns his tip with your pussy, gently tapping it to tease you once more. Your cunt almost sucks him in completely, grabbing at his length upon him pushing himself in just until you swallow his cockhead completely.

You both sharply inhale from how tight and warm you feel together. Zayne’s head falls into the junction between your neck and shoulder, mouthing your flesh with kisses and moans. Your arms wrap around his back, fingers digging into his muscles.

You spend seconds like that. Suspended, just barely beginning to experience such divine pleasure. Just absorbing how good it feels before it gets much better.

“So beautiful,” His muffled voice whines into your skin as if he’s inscribing his affirmations deep into your soul. “So intelligent. So generous, so kind, so divine, my lady.”

Before you can muster a response, his hips push deeper into your cunt with impatient speed until he’s completely bottomed out inside. The silence in your room is disturbed with your joint moans and the slick squelch of his hips beginning to move in a pattern, in and out and in and out, until your skin claps from his thrusts.

You grind your hips into his, following his growing speed as the pleasure between you builds like pressure boiling over. Still overstimulated from his tongue and fingers, your walls clench and squeeze on his girth, sucking him deeper and deeper inside with the sole intention to milk him of all he has.

Your moans sounds like a symphony to him. To hear you so profane and relishing in your own needs, clawing his back with your nails, digging your heels into his hips while your legs wrap tight around him… he’s so grateful to be the one to grant you this pleasure.

Loud clap clap claps echo and bounce off the walls, accompanied by the obscene squelches and plaps of his hips pounding into yours. Your lips travel around his neck, biting deep into his muscles to channel the orgasmic pleasure building up from the penetration and friction driving you up the wall.

“S-So good— harder, Zayne!” You whine in his ear, clawing his scalp as you tug his head back. His cock twitches inside you from the ravenous ache, which urges him to pound his hips harder and harder until his tip pokes your most sensitive spot, pulling pleasure cries from your kiss-swollen lips.

“So tight, my lady,” He moans into your ear, so graphic with his words. “It feels— fuck— I’m so close.”

His grip on your hip tightens as he coils his arms around you to keep you close, so tightly bound together that you become one in your pursuit to drown in this satisfaction. He has to get you to cum again. He must. To feel you squeeze and clamp down so tightly on his cock may just bring him to see stars. He must bring you to your climax more strongly than before.

You can feel your edge teetering by with even more intensity than the last. You can barely concentrate from how his relentless ruts drive your eyes right into your skull. You’re both slick with a coat of sweat making you move smooth and wet together.

You his face up in your hands, kissing him to taste him once more. You’re addicted. You are the way he feels inside, the way he tastes, how his devotion knows no bounds. It’s just too good. Tongues overlap, spilling and mixing your spit together while your teeth clash recklessly as your core screams for release, so tight that one more thrust will make it snap.

Zayne quickly pulls himself out, leaving your cunt pulsating and dripping from his unexpected absence. Before you can react, he sits on his knees and pulls you closer by the hips. Those muscular arms gently push your legs back just enough to hook them on his shoulders.

His hair lays drenched on his forehead as he pants on your skin, licking lines as far as your ankles while keeping his gaze on you. His cock gently rubs up and down along your folds, teasing his tip in just a bit only to pull out and rubs against you again.

The stimulation from his cockhead kissing your clit brings you to claw the sheets beneath you, tears brimming in your eyes from how good it all feels.

“What game are you playing?” You keen, both intrigued and irritated by his teasing.

“You must be so hasty, my love.” That grin of his is soaked with titillation, fangs glistening over your skin to graze and nip. “I want you to come undone from my cock as you did with my tongue. The only way to do that is to heighten your senses as best I can.”

His tongue slithers a trail of spit around every part of you he bites. His head nuzzles your legs, watching your gaze glaze over from how turned on he’s making you. He has no shame in sounding how good it feels to tease you like this, even if it drives him insane to withhold both your climaxes just a bit longer.

“Zayne,” You whine, thrashing your head into the pillow. “Zayne, I beg of you, cease your teasing!”

As much as he loves to tease, he cannot bear seeing you struggle so much. “Of course, my love,” He pushes your legs further back until they meet your chest. “I would never deny you of such a pleasure.”

He slides in smooth and fast, his cockhead instantly hitting your sensitive gummy spot in a better, more intensive angle. Your vision goes completely white for a fraction of a second, almost, almost enough to make you cum there and then.

You sink your teeth into his flesh from the intensive stimulation. It’s all so deliciously good. You can barely think. You can barely perceive anything outside of his face scrunching from the pleasure of you squeezing around his cock, of his eyes rolling back, of his moans and profane praises slipping through his lips right into your ever listening ears.

“So fucking divine,” He blabbers, completely losing all rational thought. There is only you. Only your desires. Only your pleasure. His mind is going completely numb and his only thought is you. You. You. “So tight. You feel absolutely perfect, my lady, I want to please you, make you feel so good.”

And that just does it.

Your eyes roll and cross completely, your toes curl and your nails claw at his scalp as that string finally snaps and tips you over the edge. Your throat goes hoarse from your cries as waves of your climax hit you like waves, pulsating and squeezing so tight that it brings Zayne to his climax as well.

Hot, thick ropes of cum shoot into you, coating your walls completely white as he fucks his seed deep inside. His voice cracks between each moan, singing your praises for the night to hear. His hips keep moving, pushing his cum in as deeply into you as possible, plugging it inside with his throbbing length regardless of the sting of overstimulation.

It takes just moments from you to cool down from the pleasure burning deep within you. Your moans fade to breathless gasps for air, your ministrations finally halt until you rest in each other’s arms with the crackles of the fire pit being your ambiance.

Zayne slowly presses soft pecks on your cheeks, your forehead, your temple, worshipping you in the afterglow of your unwinding, whispering words of affection to you as exhaustion starts to overcome you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is hoarse and raspy, yet as soft as a whisper. Barely able to move, considering you are both still very much snug in your mating press, you hum with a smile. He swiftly eases your legs, turning you both over so that you may rest more comfortably.

“Very much so.” You could be like this forever. Comfortable and safe in his arms. But when daybreak arrives, you will have to deal with your newfound fate.

Zayne can tell you’re deep in thought. He nuzzles his nose on your cheek to grab your attention. You rather enjoy his act of affection. “What is plaguing your mind, my love?”

“We have to find a way to disarm the tension.” You grumble. “I can outlive them all now, but that would dwindle my aunt’s persistence. And the staff… how will they respond to seeing me in this state?” Your recent act of devotion shared with him slowly dawns upon you. “What will my handmaidens think when they find us in the morning?”

A twinge of doubtful worry pokes Zayne. His lips curve into a pout as his eyes widen like small balls of light. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Absolutely not.” You cut him off. How preposterous of him to even think that way. “My concern is not their opinion. I would be more than happy to have you by my side for eternity. It’s the giggles and teasing looks they will give me that I worry about.”

“I think I can handle that,” He laughs, nuzzling you again to ease your tension. Let your servants tease you, he thinks. It’s an open signal that you have found joy again. He assumes there will be initial concern and shock considering he never informed them that he is a vampire, but they will soon grow accustomed to it.

If not for the sake of acceptance, then they would for the sake of their Countess. Which you will soon be, by all means necessary.

“Worry yourself with it when the sun rises.” Zayne pecks your lips once more. His cock slowly rises between you as you snake your arms around him.

“The night still has pleasures for us to indulge in.”

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wisechoosin · 15 days ago

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saying “i want him” about the character but not in a romantic or sexual way . i just Require him i need to Obtain him

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wisechoosin · 18 days ago

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wisechoosin · 18 days ago

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#FOR REAL LIKE #HOW WOULD YOU KNOW???#THAT GAME HAS A WITCHCRAFT THAT NOT EVEN MY ACTUAL PERIOD TRACKER CAN EXPLAIN

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wisechoosin · 29 days ago

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[nsfw!] caleb rubbing ur clit to sleep

WHAT WAS THAT PIPSQUEAK?!???!?

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wisechoosin · 1 month ago

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im not defending myself against a vampire. suck away gorgeous

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wisechoosin · 1 month ago

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yacht sex with sylus purrrr

Summer with Sylus is always composed of luxurious trips and tiny designer bikinis that barely cover your skin. And him, looking like an absolute snack with his abs basking in the glow of the afternoon sun. He has sunglasses on, and yet he feels you checking him out before making a move on him. You climb to his lap like a kitten, and his arm naturally goes to your waist to secure you on top of his cock.

"Wow, someone's excited" You tease, slotting yourself perfectly for him to feel the throb of your pussy.

"I don't think I'm the only one who's excited, sweetheart" He removes his sunglasses and places it on the table. Caressing your face before tucking stray hair behind your ear. "May I check?"

"Thought you'd never ask" You whisper as your lips go for each other in a passionate kiss. He graces you with his tongue, and you let him in as he moves your panty to the side to feel the wetness. He groans as you immediately soak his fingers, entering his large finger and slushing more of your goodness. You pull away to take a breath, but he catches you with his lips, not letting you go as he adds another finger to the mix and moves with a fast pace. You squirm in his hold, feeling the high that builds up as you tighten your hands around his shoulders. You melt deeper in the messy kiss to ground yourself as you approach your high, but Sylus has other plans to make you cum. He pulls his fingers away and you frown, yet he only smirks and lets you watch him put his fingers in his mouth.

"Fuck me now."

"No kitten, let's watch the sunset. You said you wanted to watch the sunset on my yacht, didn't you?"

You furrow your brows and huff, "Yes, I did...but I want you right now too"

Sylus smiles and turns you to face the incoming orange glow in the sky. He nibbles on your ear, kisses your cheek, and whispers, "Why don't we watch the sunset together while you ride me, hmm? So we can fulfill both of my pretty girl's wishes?" He wastes no time untying the bra of your bikini, his huge hands cupping your pussy as he massages them before tearing the panty to the side.

You gasp, "Sylus! That was Dior!"

"You have plenty of Dior stuff, baby." He lines up his bulbous head to the entrance of your pussy and penetrates your walls, pounding you upwards as his thick thighs slap against your own. He has his grip on your waist like a steering wheel, guiding you to move your ass to his rhythm.

Obscene sounds come out of your mouth as he continues to drop you on his cock. He meets your body as he batters your insides up, relishing the feeling of your warm walls sliding on his cock. He throws his head back as you squeeze on him. Your whines music to his ears. He knows he's the only one who can make you feel this good. Sylus' cock is the only thing you'd bounce on, and he swore you shake your ass just for him, just like what you're doing right now.

"That's it kitten, move that body."

The sun is forgotten from his view, all his focus on the jiggle of your sexy ass and how his cock disappears into you. But you, who have the perfect view of the sunset, feel high in the sky with all the ecstasy you're feeling. You bounce as hard as you can, impaling yourself on his hard cock even if it tears you apart and your hips hurt. You cry out his name, and he shushes you with pecks. "You can do it, continue."

Sylus hurts so good, along with the butterfly kisses and bites he presses to your back to motivate you. Your gaze flutters at the setting sun, reflecting on the water beautifully, making you want to kiss him because the moment is perfect. But it's like your minds are linked because Sylus suddenly grabs your chin and kisses you like there's no tomorrow. He pistons in and out faster, creating wet sounds from your pussy, and you can already feel the incoming soreness tomorrow. Such a thick cock penetrating you always leaves you limping like a lamb. Sylus presses his head strategically against your sweet spot, targeting it like a game as you falter in his hold. You ended up letting him hit your womb while laying on his chest to lazily look at the view as he does all the work.

He chuckles, "Leaving all the work to me? That's not nice" Sylus repositions and manhandles you like a doll. His muscled arm hooks under both of your thighs, lifting your body close to him as he administers his final thrusts for you take it like a good girl "Your pussy is so tight, fuck"

You cry and bounce to help him climax, snaking your arm to the back of his head to pull him in for another messy kiss. He responds hungrily as his cockhead beats up your cunt a few more times before you pull away to scream into the sun, shaking and overstimulated by the release you just had. Your contracting walls and cum washing over his dick triggers his own high, groaning deeply into your neck as you caress his hair while warm sticky liquid floods your insides. You're so used to having him raw that the feeling of his cum adds to your climax and relaxes you. You don't even mind the mess he made between your legs.

Sylus stays inside and soothes your lower body with his massages, knowing they were dead after all the exercise you did. He calms you down and peppers kisses all over your face before landing on your lips. You look up at him and smile, hiding your face on his chest before staring at the sun going down the horizon.

"Round 2 in the shower?"

You ask and his dick twitches back to life inside you.

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wisechoosin · 1 month ago

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let's pretend he changed his mind and it's not a ludonarrative dissonance... yeah, why not...

🫵 fake idgaf-er, fake nonchalant, big phony, down bad loser etc.

#honestly i'm tired of giving excuses to this game instead of seeing plotholes like god intended

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wisechoosin · 1 month ago

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big girls don’t cry

𓍯𓂃 self aware robot! caleb x female reader

(wc: 9.5k) ✦ summary: after your brother passes, consumed by grief, you take to the internet to order a synthetic version of him. afterward, it’s impossible to throw him out. (or: alternatively titled the trojan horse)

✦ content robot! caleb, past engineer! caleb, au where EVER deals in robotics, non-evol au, 18+ nsfw/smut, mildly dubious consent, angst, grief, mental instability, bad coping mechanisms, robot pseudocest?? robot sex, mind games, moral grayness all around, dark/yandere undertones; this fic can have multiple interpretations, pregnancy

✦ sidenote have yall ever seen that episode of black mirror? ‘be right back’? basically this: the girl’s boyfriend dies so she orders an incredibly realistic, intelligent robot to replace him. they’re identical in personality and appearance, and yet… 👀 ANYWAYS ( ⸍ɞ̴̶̷ ·̫ ɞ̴̶̷⸌ ) i have a set plot for this in my head, but i left it a lil vague so ur allowed to think of it in ur own way 🤎 if u wanna know the ‘canon’ tho.. u can absolutely ask me. the lore is so deep its traumatizing :,) anyways hope u enjoy <3 ty for 1k btw!! take this as a lil celebration treat 🥳 it took so much out of me but i think i really vibe with it heheh

He’s perfect. Nigh on.

For the first few days since his arrival, since hauling him off the foot of your porch and into your living room to unpack him- heart tickering in your chest all the while, trepidatious- you’ve just stared. Reached out your hands to hover, ghosting over the broad blade of his shoulder, his chapped lips, the slight jut of his cheekbone.

His hands, as big and weathered as you remember them (but gentle, always gentle), hang limply by his sides.

You don’t dare slip your smaller ones in them.

All of the theatrics, yet you don’t press his- its- button, either.

No, you don’t even touch it after the initial unpacking, wrenching your fingers away as soon as they get too close. As soon as they get too tempted by hope and the wish that this hunk of metal was more than just a replica of your late brother. Half of you thinks it might burn if you get too comfortable; and you won’t get comfortable— underneath the solidified layers of grief and- you have trouble saying it aloud, but bitterness- there’s still just enough common sense to keep you from taking the leap. The leap from mourning to insanity.

It’s hollow. You know that much. A nothingness enwrapped in a steely chassis full of wiring and code too technological for you to understand, all covered by a synthetic skin suit as the pretty bow on top.

And you know- what with your emotional state- that if you could peer inside, strip it down to the framework and just… take a moment to look, that you’d vomit. It’d be too much to bear, being forced to reconcile with the fact that he really is gone— and in response to it all, you’ve blown your savings on an eerily-realistic, glorified doll of him with wires for veins.

You’re trembling when you stiffly prop him against the far wall, limiting contact as much as possible, and step away, keeping your eyes on him all the while. It. Not him. Not Caleb- that’s not your fucking brother, just a disgusting, soulless fascimile of him—

But as you stand back on your feet (with the coffee table in between, just in case) to get a good look at him, like a real, proper look, your breath is taken.

The thing: He’s not just a passable carbon copy, you realize. Admittedly, he’s…

Identical.

(He’s Caleb.)

All the oxygen gusts out of you in a breeze.

You lift a shaking hand over your open mouth and choke as silent tears spill from your lashline, blurring your eyes on the way down. Wetting your knuckles as they shake wildly.

You’re crying. Of course you’re crying. This is- you can’t do this. You just can’t.

Racing upstairs, retreating to your bedroom to slam the door as if the devil himself was on your tail, only then do you drop your hand and fully sob.

It’s pitiful, really. Wretched noises that resonate from deep in your throat, your spirit wrecked as you curl up on the floor and make yourself into a ball.

Darkness comes outside, the space around you muting itself in grey colors. The puddle beneath your cheek is moonlit. You sniffle and relocate, but you don’t even bother to tuck the not-Caleb robot in its special container, no- you just settle beneath your blankets and pray it’s all a bad dream you’ll awake from come tomorrow.

Tomorrow: you’ll send him off. Return him.

You don’t care how much money it costs- for all you care, it’s paltry, it’s replaceable. And it is replaceable, that’s the bleak truth: that android stood motionless by your couch, despite having a face so familiar it’s painful, has no emotional value whatsoever. There’s no depth to it. No substance.

A skeleton built by rods. Artificial flesh modeled around thin, colorful cables and circuit boards.

I mean- he’s no better than the stapler on your desk, or the toaster on your kitchen counter. Better yet, a crumb on the floor.

A nothingness, you think again. Prettily encased in smooth, sun-speckled skin and that cottony loungewear (that still retains his smell) you could hardly part with when the online form requested his attire.

He’s perfect, nigh on, you’ll give the company who forged him that much credit, because they sure followed his pictures to a T. It looks just like him; so much so you couldn’t even bear to look at him for more than ten minutes before bolting, the emotional response so violent.

But the problem is that he’s not real. He’s not your Caleb.

✦

It’s hard to throw him away when he looks like that. When he bears the likeness of your late, beloved older brother.

Yes, you want to stuff him back in his box and return to sender, but when it comes to courage, you lack the backbone necessary to carry out your decisions.

You tiptoe down the stairs to see him again and sputter.

He’s too real, you decide in a heartbeat. Too real.

Shutting your eyes as tears begin to pour anew, lunging forward with blind intent to cache him away in the elaborate box he came in, you get to work. And you get to work quickly. You can only bear to look at it- that heartless caricature of your gege- for so long until you feel something in you, your last fragile piece, begin to fracture.

After the explosion, all you had left of him were the memories. Not an explanation, not a goodbye, not even a body. What remained of the boy you were fostered with was ash and a puerile, yet no less beloved locket with its edges burnt copper.

Now, you have something exponentially more physical and intact, unsullied by the reality of what was.

So for a moment, yes- sue you and your heart for hesitating- but it’s a hard task to seal him away.

Agonizing, really.

His arms are stiff by his sides but you feel the skin; the lump of muscle in his forearm, the bump of his elbow. The only thing that keeps you from giving into the puffed-up illusion of his being real and alive is the coolness beneath your fingertips. The unnatural, icy feel to his otherwise mortal skin that reminds in a voice, condescending like all things out of reach, see? that’s not Caleb. And you’re insulting him by thinking that it could be.

You’re halfway done nudging him towards the box (careful, despite your frenzied, fluttering heart; afraid to damage his likeness) when you trip over your own feet navigating the narrow space between your table and the couch.

It’s unthinking, the way you grab him- arms flying out to steady yourself with his broad shoulders.

In all your scrambling- something clicks. Gives under your fingerpad.

A button.

With mute horror, you watch his eyes light.

…And you can see it too, you know, registering in his gaze as it settles over you and takes you in— a blip of mirth that quickly warps into worry at the look you give him. You must appear no different than a deer in headlights.

For several seconds, you simply stand there, your palms clamming up where they dig into his shoulders, and gawk as Caleb— not-Caleb’s— expression turns to one ready to comfort.

Familiar, painfully.

The stiff hands at his side are spurred into motion, lifting to cradle your cheek while the other helps ground you by the small of your back.

“Meimei?”

No, no- don’t say that, don’t say that, internally, you have to shoehorn down all your grief as it bubbles up, and harden your face to keep from crying all over again.

…Although it’s more or less obvious you had been. The puffy eyes rimmed in red, the certain wisp of defeat to your brow and the exhaustion written all over you is clear as day. It leaves nothing to ponder.

He sounds disturbed by it all, the sadness about you that lies thick as a coating of paint. Commiserative to a fault. Lassoing you to his firm chest as he burrows your head below the dip of his chin.

He goes, “What’s wrong?” Then, “It’s okay, I’m here. I got you. Just let it all out.”

And the world around you staggers to a fall.

✦

It was very difficult to get rid of him as he stood still; when you could convince yourself he was just a startlingly realistic statue.

It’s all but impossible when he begins to move, and speak, and smile at you.

You don’t get close enough to press his button. You’re not quite strong enough to apply the distance you probably should, though, so when he takes a step forward, you take one back- but you never run.

It’s a weird limbo you’re caught in. Do you leap into his arms? Do you… Do you toss him out the door, after all? Leave him to the elements to chip away at his body; the rain to erode his fleshy outer shell?

But no. How could you do that? He-

He fucking looks like Caleb. It feels more sinful to rid yourself of him, now that he’s… on, than to indulge a little bit in the idea that he’s still alive and breathing.

If Caleb was still alive, you wonder silently one morning with no small amount of hurt, would he hate you? For whatever the hell it is you’re doing now?

You can’t even blame Gideon, not really. Without his persistent messages, and all the links he sent you of articles revolving androids and how they can help the user cope with grief, you’d have been none the wiser to the concept, sure- but at the end of the day, you made the choice to get one.

A chunk of your savings and an unprompted, fat check from Caleb’s best buddy— you decided to throw that at some futuristic company (well, not ‘some’: both men worked there- albeit they always kept their work very hush (you did catch whispers of a promotion, though, before the accident)) and one of the many services they provide.

Gideon, over the course of some months, was all but pointing you at their website, promising it would help. He’d be there to clear any confusion, in any case; hey, how neat did a walkthrough of the site from a bonafide EVER engineer sound?: Just one of his probes.

It was only two weeks back, however, when he paid an unsolicited house call, wordlessly wrapping you into his broad chest, that you caved to them.

You think about the scene while you sit at the counter and sip from your mug.

Your home smells richly of coffee, just brewed, and bacon as it sizzles. Eyeing not-Caleb with a pang of unease— not fully able to snuff out that feeling of uncanniness even as some days pass peacefully— you offer a small smile when he glances up at you.

Beaming just as he was the day before. Beaming like nothing is terribly wrong.

(To be clear, something is.)

You… can’t help but feel like you’re being monitored when he stares.

Yes, it’s a silly fear, you know that. The company your late brother worked for wasn’t exactly open with all the scientific grounds they made breakthroughs on, but he always promised that their means were lawful. Caleb wasn’t one for lies- so your doubts were soothed. So as hush-hush as EVER is sometimes, you’re fairly confident they wouldn’t ship out mass batches of faulty or otherwise rigged products.

Anyway- you suppose the weird intensity in its eyes isn’t all that off-putting when you take into account the very real personality it was formulated from.

When the pancakes (your favorite: banana chocolate chip; information he apparently already knew) turn an appetizing shade of gold, he shimmies them off the pan with a spatula and onto a plate.

That plate- loaded tastefully with bacon, a scoop of rice, and eggs with a ketchup smile painted over its face- slides before you. But though your belly growls, you don’t eat. Not right away. Wherever the culinary arts are concerned, your older brother has always excelled. Growing up, maybe you even exploited him a little for it- but he never did anything he didn’t want to; sometimes it even seemed like Caleb enjoyed sticking his neck out for you.

He pats his hands over his too-small apron (not that he minds it), frowning.

“What’s wrong, Pipsqueak? Does… Does the food look alright? I haven’t made somethin’ for you in a while, huh…?”

Oh no, the food looks fine.

It’s just that you’re the only one eating it.

And maybe it’d be better to keep that thought to yourself: part of you is just over the moon to have him standing in your kitchen with you after months apart— but it doesn’t matter that you keep your mouth shut, because Caleb reads your mind anyway.

He’s at your side in a blink, hushing away the tears that bead at your eyes out of nowhere.

“Hey, hey… No cryin’, okay? I’m just not hungry this morning, Meimei- but that doesn’t mean I won’t sit with you and talk while you eat. C’mon,” he squeezes your hand where it lies on the counter, smiling lightly.

It takes everything in you not to flinch away from the touch.

“Wouldn’t want your breakfast goin’ cold now, would we?” Pulling out the barstool beside you, he sits.

You don’t ask him to, but Caleb picks up your fork and embodies one of the several memories you have of him spoonfeeding you as a child.

“I can feed you. Just like the good ol’ times. Here, you gotta open your mouth first,” His smile strengthens when your lips, as if by habit, part. Your lashes flutter shut when that first bite touches your tongue- syrupy hotcakes and fluffy scrambled eggs- and for that you’re glad because you don’t have to see the way he marvels at you as you eat.

It’s not good for your heart.

“So? What does Pipsqueak the number one food critic have to say about my dish?” He shines, “Does it taste as good as it looks?” You can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes- the scene too nostalgic to simply idle away with indifference. You wear all your emotions on your face, anyway; you’re not fooling anybody, least of all Caleb.

“Even better,” you murmur with the barest of smiles. He presses another spoonful to your lips and you giggle.

Violet hues glitter with delight. You’ve said practically nothing to him this whole time, and he’s been patient- weirdly patient, almost- but the joy in his gaze is palpable now.

Sometimes, though, you can almost swear you see something in his gaze shift. Tuning itself like a lens. He blinks and it disappears.

“…But I will say your presentation could use some work. It’s a 7 out of 10.”

Caleb, still holding the utensil out, uses his other hand to prop his chin up. He smiles fondly as he regards you. As you’ve gotten older, it’s like every time you see the brunet, he looks at you like he’s taking you in for the first time all over again.

“Yeah?” He encourages. “Enlighten me, oh Pipsqueak- what must I do to earn those three extra points?”

“The ketchup smiley face was all lopsided,” you explain in a quiet voice, having a hard time fully immersing in this lie unraveling before you; beautiful as it is. As much as you might ache to.

This isn’t a good idea. You know that.

Still…

Maybe… maybe just a couple of conversations with him can’t be too bad, right? I mean, it’s only a fraction of what Gideon was expecting of you (lounging around together to chat, game nights, and even public outings), but to him, it’d be a start. For you, though, it’s a stretch. An exception.

You should limit interaction with not-Caleb.

You know this, and yet—

Glancing back to him, you try and fail to hide a coy smile with a napkin. “Next time, keep a steady hand, and you’ll be a perfect chef in no time. Maybe not as good as me, but, y’know…”

He chuckles, brows lifting. “Oh yeah? Then expect surgical precision from me tomorrow morning. Chef Caleb won’t let you down again!”

An intense sadness slips through the momentary happiness you were allowed. It nags at your chest.

You blink rapidly, giving a feeble, light sound before looking away.

You’ve never let me down, Gege, you don’t say, taking your fork from the clasp of his big hand (much to his dismay) to prod at your plate.

It was me who failed you.

✦

Not-Caleb looks like Caleb, yes.

He acts like him, too.

You spend the span of the next few weeks trying to scrutinize him; hours spent on the couch, his hand in yours while you grill him. You treat him like a bug under a microscope. Prodding for answers to questions you’re sure his programming must miss- interrogations built on memories so old they’re near ancient. Just blurry wisps in your mind.

Not-Caleb remembers some better than you.

Puts you to shame with his mechanical replies detailing scenarios you’re missing fragments of.

What’s Caleb’s favorite fruit?

I like apples, Pipsqueak.

And what’s my favorite food he’d make for me?

Easy-peasy. You still love those boneless chicken wings, don’t you? Although, that braised pork I make for you comes as a close second, doesn’t it?

Am I your real sister?

And you’d never ask the real Caleb such a thing. You’re only doing it now because it’s one of the most personal things you could possibly make a query of. His response would be very telling.

Life before you met him all those years ago is no more than a fuzzy glimpse, and you never minded all that much: so long as you had Caleb, nothing else, nothing before, mattered. All throughout your childhood, people didn’t know the difference anyway.

Far as they knew, you were family.

Which… isn’t wrong, per se— but it’s not biological. ‘Real.’

You, Caleb, and Gran were obviously aware of that. To you it was always a beautiful thing: a tale of rebirth, in a way, or a second chance, as a young girl found a new place to call home with a warm guardian and a brotherly figure. They’d stabilize her and bring warmth to an otherwise cold beginning.

Caleb was never spoken for on that front.

You… didn’t see eye to eye on all things. Oh, that much is true.

Sometimes you were convinced that he wanted nothing to do with the assumption that you were his little sister (albeit, you were never sure why). At others, it was like he was furious you were only bound to him in name and not blood. He saw it as an attack on your close bond.

…But Not-Caleb surely doesn’t know all his nuances. Not like you came to.

So you’re expecting a pause. A minor glitch or even a malfunction as the robot scours his database.

Got him, you almost think to yourself— then swiftly take it back.

The face of the android sat at your side falls, much to your surprise, into a small frown.

And the truth must be coded deep in the bulwarks of not-Caleb’s artificial brain: your and Caleb’s respective origins. The answer is no. No, you’re not his real sister.

…But your real Gege would lie and say yes, absolutely you are—

“‘Course you are,” Not-Caleb goes. And he does it with as much passion behind it as you’d expect.

You’re startled into silence.

He scoots impossibly closer and loops an arm over your shoulder, tucking your head to his jaw. Seamlessly, he pecks your hairline, saying, “You’re my sweet little Meimei. You’re priceless to me. Now no more pickin’ at me, okay?” He suggests in a light tone, rubbing your shoulder. “You’ve been questioning me all evening- look, it even got dark out. Let’s get you to bed-“

“I- I didn’t say I was tired-“

“You didn’t have to. I could tell you were startin’ to get sleepy, Pipsqueak,” he looks down at you and smiles- a reassuring, yet no less playful smile- and for one moment you cant breathe because fuck it’s him. It’s really, really him. “Your drooping eyes were a dead giveaway. Hm... I guess that big dinner we had put you in a food coma, huh?” He chuckles.

We. Funny, that. You recall the feast being one-sided.

Nonetheless.

Without prompting, he sweeps you off the couch and walks you up the wooden stairway. The old steps creak underfoot. He does it all effortlessly, though, arms as strong and capable as you remember.

You loop your slimmer ones around his neck.

With great hesitance, you lend a part of yourself to this illusion.

This beautiful, near unbelievable, oh-so fragile illusion that Caleb is not dead.

When you reach your bedroom, you don’t send him off to the guest room like all the nights before. No, when he carefully sets you down, you watch him, motionlessly, as he tucks you in and plants a chaste kiss to your forehead. When he turns to go- “don’t let the bed bugs bite”- you snatch his hand, half terrified you’ll blink and he’ll be gone, and flash him a look that silently pleads.

Stay.

The brunet’s lashes flutter, brushing over his cheekbones where the lamplight makes them shine.

He opens his mouth.

Pauses, then closes it.

“Stay. Please, Gege,” you breathe, on the cusp of shattering all over again. It’s become more manageable over recent days, this unresolved cluster of emotion inside you, but it’s times like these that make you feel blindsided by it.

You innocently add, “Like when we were kids.”

Oh, you’d go back to then if you could.

His long fingers, loose in your hold, flip to swallow up your hand. He stoops over to turn off the light.

His voice shakes ever so slightly, “Okay.”

Then, he clambers into bed with you and reminds you of just how small it is, how much he does not belong, but you’ve never felt more at home when he pulls you to his chest and- dutifully ignoring the quiet beneath your ear, the absence of a pulse- you cling to him.

Maybe it’d be a little weird, the proximity, what with your grown age and the fact that you were no longer children cuddling during thunderstorms…

It’s not like you’re hanging off him like he’s your lifeline for any nefarious reason, though- and it’s not like he can hold any judgment anyway. He’s… He’s not really Caleb. He’s not even a person. Just a sentient robot that resembles him to a shocking degree and soothes that ache in your chest- just by a smidge.

…And yet when he looks at you, suddenly, tilting your jaw up so he can admire what he sees in the darkness- your stunned expression lit faintly by the moon- it’s like he’s reading this in his own way.

His interpretation? you realize in a shaking breath?

He’s no longer holding his little sister, but a woman.

It’s in his eyes, rippling as he exhales deeply (all artificial, albeit you don’t dwell on that for long) and thumbs over your lip.

A boyish kind of wonder lifts his brow as he stares, cheeks slightly flushed.

Your heart bangs in your chest. Like gunshots punctuating the silence. It grows to be unbearable. This is weird, and wrong- the way he’s looking at you. But you quickly chalk it up to a malfunction.

It’s all a fluke, technology fucking up in a way that reminds you of humanity’s shortcomings and how far they can only go.

Finally, you’ve found the fault in its design. The place where Caleb and not-Caleb differ.

You know your beloved older brother like the back of your own hand, so when his eyes flutter (flash, almost) and he lurches forward to clumsily press his lips to yours— you label the action for what it really is.

An inaccuracy.

Perhaps, you think as you close your bleared eyes and let him, the only. Because the rest of his program is perfect. Infallible.

The scene unfurling is foreign- his big hands cupping your cheeks as he kisses you like his life depends on it- but as he shifts you beneath him and hovers atop, that signature softness remains. Really, as his fingertips reach for your shorts—

(A blip of something mechanical in its fiery gaze, almost as if it’s trying to rectify itself; the shortest of pauses—)

It’s all that grounds you.

“Caleb,” you moan, or cry. You don’t know. Just that when he helps you out of your panties to go down on you, digits delving inside your tight hole after he wets it with his tongue, your heart sings for him.

You don’t push him away. No, even as the humanoid sullies your late brother’s image with all his sinful hungering, you can’t break yourself free. Never find it in you to.

Because it doesn’t matter what he treats you as. You realize belatedly, with no small amount of horror, that you don’t even care how many flaws Not-Caleb has. He could have a million for all you care, you’re already too far gone- writhing underneath him as he holds your legs open and feasts- to pretend you have any right to feel offended.

And if the real Caleb was here, he’d hate you: an echo in your skull, sneering. He should, but-

“There, Meimei, ngh…” a hot tongue (no longer as cold as he was in stasis) laves along your folds. Mauve eyes look up to you with reverence, glittering in the dark.

“Just like that. Moan, say my name- I’ve been waiting for this for so long…”

You wear ignorance like a blindfold. Shutting your eyes and ears.

A fluke. His hardware stalling.

His hair woven in your fingers feels like velvet. Soft, silky; hanging over his brow as he eats you out- skillfully, might you add. Albeit his passion wins out by just a touch against his expertise, clumsily plunging his two middle fingers into your pussy.

“You taste so good, so sweet- mmph- I’ll take care of you, okay?” He mumbles in between lewd squelches.

In both physical and moral terms, there is not one thing about this that isn’t filthy.

Y-You know that, but…

“Don’t worry. I’ll- ah- I’ll make sure you feel real nice. I’ll make you come as many times as you want. I’ve been… dreamin’ of this for years now… I won’t mess this up, okay? I’ll do whatever it takes until you’re shaking.”

-but this is all you have left of him.

Hazily, you glance down to him, cheeks aflame, and barely succeed in asking, “C-Caleb- h-how are you even gonna-? You-“ you choke on the words you need to say. With a mite of dry humor, you think right then that you’re short-circuiting just as bad as him (because he is).

“Are you capable of it?”

Of fucking you? Of pinning you down and throwing your ankles over his shoulders to better plow you into your creaking, old mattress?

His brow twitches slightly. Voice ragged, he makes an agreeable sound, pressing a kiss to your clit so adoring it’s almost funny when his finger bends sensually inside you. “Are you doubting my abilities, Meimei? I’ll have you know I’ve been practicing this moment in my head for—“

No. You slam your eyes shut and drown it all out.

His words become a white noise. No different than the steady whir of the air conditioning as a cool breeze gusts beneath your door, cooling your forehead where it beads with sweat.

A- A glitch, you quietly decide. Even long after he’s made you cum thrice (twice on his fingers and tongue, once on his thick, flushed cock), you hold staunch to that.

It’s all just a fluke.

✦

When the sun rises, you wake with a start to a phone ringing- yours- and swallow a lump of unease at the figure lying beside you (your Gege, a voice in your head reminds: you silence it).

Prying off the solid arm around your waist to gingerly exit the room- still half-naked- you piously ignore the cum caked to the inside of your thighs. Yours, it must be. You don’t focus on the confusion, either, the ask of just how the hell last night was possible and why you let your emotions get ahold of you.

(Because you love him. And maybe, just maybe- in your own weird, admittedly morally-grey way- you can cobble together a sense of normalcy with him. At least just for a little bit...)

As you head to the living room downstairs, you tap your phone and lift it to your ear.

“G-Gran,” you say as greeting, smoothing your hair back, still quite ruffled over… recent events. Ruffled and ashamed.

Very.

But- while he looks like Caleb, he’s not in reality. That… malfunction last night is a blatant proof of that. You only got on your back and let him have his way with you because you’ve missed his touch so much that you’d quite literally accept it in any form.

If sex or his lips battling against yours- his whispered vows, as seemingly heartfelt as they were errant to Caleb’s true character- is all you’ll get of him, then so be it.

In your own way, messed up as it is, it’s almost like with his android, you get a chance to reconcile with the loss.

To say goodbye.

Because before that package arrived at your doorstep, you didn’t have the luxury of one.

A familiar, aged voice sounds over the line. “Hey, dearie, oh- I didn’t wake you, did I? You sound tired.” She’s one to talk, you think to yourself- but not with malice. Truth be told you’ve worried for her as of late.

It’s been lonely for you both, you’re sure, but even though she only lives on the other end of Linkon, you have trouble making the drive. You haven’t dropped by in a couple weeks.

There’s a few different reasons.

It’s hard to pretend you’re fine when you’re not, for one, that what happened with Caleb- the abruptness and lack of conclusion, the confusing aftermath of it all- never did. You try your best to plaster on a smile and be strong in your grandmother’s presence, but that’s easier said than done. Especially when that old house of hers is jam-packed with photos and tokens of your past with him— painful reminders whenever you do visit.

The newest excuse for not is guilt.

Frankly, Gideon is the only one who knows what’s going on. Hah- no surprise, being he was the main reason for your even ordering not-Caleb.

But Gran doesn’t know.

You haven’t told her about him. And after last night, what with your own release still dried to your legs (which wobble slightly; he was every bit passionate and then some), you don’t think you ever will.

She might actually slap you across the face, taking your willingness to believe in such a lie as an offense against her grandson’s vibrant character.

…If she found out what happened- that you opened your legs for him and moaned- she might go into cardiac arrest.

You didn’t… want that to happen, definitely not- I mean, you didn’t even have the time to prepare. But yes, you did let it.

And curse yourself for wanting your brother back, but—

“No, it’s fine, Gran,” you glance over your shoulder to the staircase. Finding it empty, you let out a breath. “Is something wrong? It’s… It’s early.”

—you’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel a little fucking blissful to wake up to his face again, just like back when you were inseparable kids.

She sighs on the other end, “no, no,” she starts. You think you hear a TV in the background; something to fill the silence you leave her to sit in. “Nothing’s wrong, my dear. I just… I haven’t seen you in a bit. I miss your face, Y/n. How are you doing?”

Like a dart to a board, guilt lands its mark.

You shouldn’t fluster at such a simple question, but you do. Not just because it’s so direct and genuine, but because a big hand rests over your shoulder and suddenly Caleb is there, standing behind you.

You straighten up from where you’re propped against the wall and quickly lift a hand to silence any words he may speak.

“I-I’m well, Gran. Sorry, just- I’ll visit soon, I promise.”

“I’d like that,” she murmurs. You’re aware of how much she means it and close your eyes with a wince. A broad palm, as if sensing your inner turmoil, rubs your shoulder soothingly.

You rub the bridge of your nose and don’t look.

“What’s… What’s been keeping you?” She broaches after a beat. Laughter from the television fades in and out over the speaker.

For a second, you freeze. You freeze because you fear she might know.

All for naught: “You’re getting enough sleep, right? I don’t want you overworking yourself. I know you’ve had a lot on your mind, sweetie- oh, God knows we’ve both suffered all these months without Caleb, but that’s no reason for us to fall apart either-”

You sigh shakily and bite down on a cry.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve been better, Gran, okay? I…” Shiftily, you wet your bottom lip and give a half truth- as if that can relieve you of this weight. “I was talking with Gideon a little; he’s…. he helped me.”

She sounds pleasantly surprised. “Oh? Good, good. What about?”

Nosy as ever. Not that you’re complaining. It’s good to know someone cares- someone… real.

You swallow your unease. “He was just talking to me about his job and stuff. EVER... He told me he was finally getting that raise or whatever, so he’s doing well... I- I was prying per usual,” you joke to lighten the mood, “He, uh… he tells me more than Caleb ever did, so…” (And when his name started to feel like a sin to say, you don’t know.) “So, you know. I was just curious. He was checking in on me, too…”

Warm breath fans at your ear, fingers closing around your shoulder as he peppers kisses at your neck insistently- and you shudder. Clasping the phone tighter (because it suddenly feels unstable in your hands), you shrug off (not)Caleb for just long enough to say,

“Gran- I- I gotta go. Uh- someone else is calling me,” and to preclude any probing on her end- or extra guilt on yours- you add, “I’ll visit tomorrow, okay? I promise. I’ll- I’ll be there. I love you.”

A voice timidly mirrors it back, and then a big set of hands is taking the phone from you and ending the call.

You turn to him with a notch in your brow as he pockets it in the sweats he must’ve hastily thrown on after finding the bed empty.

“Caleb-“

You start, and his lips press to yours.

With some encouragement- hushing you between kisses, knuckling down your cheek affectionately- he shepherds you back upstairs, to your room.

“Nuh-uh, just let me take care of you, pretty girl, ‘kay?” He murmurs, smiling. You could die in peace to it, you think hazily as he lies you down— because the last mental screenshot you took of him before the accident was his handsome face crestfallen after you’d said something scathing.

To your defense, at the time, you thought he’d deserved it. Maybe he did. It’s hard to remember, but whatever the argument was about, it must’ve been stupid. Not worth it.

And… he’s not Caleb, he’s not, you know that, but…

“Lie back. It’s… It’s just you and me here. I want you to know that. And everyone else-“

(Gran, you realize he must mean; Gideon and all the other familiar and unfamiliar faces both at EVER.)

“None of it matters now. Just focus on me. On Caleb.”

(And how eerie is that? You muse with a whit of your rationale. The rest, as it withers, perhaps only does so for the sake of your own sanity.)

The whole world as it stands: nudged away to oblivion at his behest.

“O-Okay,” you give.

He’s not Caleb. But if this is your best- only- shot at reconciliation, then you’ll take him with arms open.

…

When he’s done priming you, he clambers on top and you experience a repeat of last night.

Deja vu, as fresh as a wound reopened, makes your mind lag a few increments behind reality. But when he starts to slow down, thrusts growing sloppy- it feels oddly real, and, head a bit clearer than last night, you register that.

…But it’s your release that stains the sheets. Steadily trickling from your hole, slicking his hips. It only makes sense that way; he might fuck like a human, but that’s all inherent to his program, you’re sure, built to please- and ultimately, he’s made of metal. Rods. You think you can feel them when you grab too tight, that hardness.

He leads you to the proverbial end of the cliff, and you survey the bottom one last time before- geronimo- you make that final leap.

When not-Caleb comes, he shudders in your arms.

Yet you swear… You swear something inside him, behind his lidded eyes, deeper in-

It’s like it shutters.

A flash. Brief and jarring, for a moment so bright it’s like your eyes have been virginal to light all along.

Just a malfunction, you decide with a spent sigh, sweaty in his solid arms as they make a cage around you, eager to sleep until noon.

Maybe you’ll mention it to Gideon next time he drops by.

Maybe he would know how to fix it.

✦

The days that follow after are foggy and empty. Like a moratorium of everything that once breathed in your life.

You wreathe not-Caleb’s neck with that beloved apple-shaped locket like he’s earned it.

Knowing nobody ever could.

✦

Gideon knocks, one afternoon.

You send him away. Or- Caleb does.

At that, you feel the need to remind him of who he is: the people he cares for, his career path, how he operated as a person before the incident in his suite in Skyhaven.

Caleb stops you short, a palm dwarfing the back of your own, and says I know. I just don’t want my buddy interrupting our time together, Pipsqueak. Can you blame me for wantin’ it to be just you and me?

You stop going out.

He doesn’t let you- not really. I mean, he doesn’t explicitly declare these rules over you, but it’s in the strange glint in his eye- the one that makes you shut your mouth and purse your lips- when he stops you at the door and suggests you stay.

Says it’s better that way. Says he worries whenever you go. Says to take him with you instead if you really must.

Progressively, you’re drifting farther and farther out from shore. Mentally-speaking, you’re going off the deep end. But exiting your house hand-in-hand with your brother- the man the town declared dead in an email you couldn’t bear to finish reading- as he stares at you like a lover, is, no matter the ache, something you can’t quite bring yourself to do.

It’d make this illusion just a smidgen realer. You’d never wake from this dream if other people saw it- saw him- and therefore made his presence more solid in your mind. (Not to mention the disgusting assumptions they’d make- none exactly wrong.)

You’ve been so consumed by grief lately, though, that the knowing of your imminent breakdown can’t stop you from making other bad choices.

So when the brunet altogether bars you from going out in public for the fear that something bad will happen to you (nonsensical; not that he sees the flaws in his arguments), insisting that groceries can be bought online, Gran can be checked up on over the phone, etcetera—

Yeah, you bend to it, alright? Sue you. Of course you bend. It’s all you know what to do anymore.

Gradually, though, the unexpected charm of not-Caleb begins to fade, and you’re left with a possessive form of the brother you once knew. A man desperately clawing at straws, hellbent to keep you at his side, clingy and insecure and, frankly, sometimes scary.

As the inaccuracies build, you’re not sure for how much longer you can overlook them.

The only reason you even tolerated him originally was because he was passable. More than that, even- he was perfect. A dead-ringer for Caleb in both appearance and personality.

But this-

This isn’t Caleb. No longer. It never was.

You don’t believe it for a second.

You heave a soft sigh. Anything louder than a breath brings the chance that he’ll overhear from where he stands in the kitchen and come zipping over, no doubt ready to fret and question you. If you value your time alone- rare as it is these days- then you’ll stay silent.

It’s a near impossible task to separate yourself from him. It was a small miracle in itself that you managed to break away for half an hour or so- but even that was begat by a lie. It seems the only real way to rid yourself of the overly doting, obsessive older brother (even if just for a few minutes) is to give him another demand. This time, it was an ‘I’m hungry’ that finally earned you some peace and quiet.

It’s a little sad, but lately you treat him more or less like a jacket after entering a warm home: you’re eager to shrug him off because the climate has changed.

The climate has changed.

He- He’s changed.

He’s growingly insane and yes, while the irony of that observation isn’t lost on you (considering you’re the mad woman who bought a human-like robot as a replacement in the first place), you still can’t help but feel alarmed as the signs of wrongness don’t cease but worsen.

You think about pressing the button. Turning him off, sending him away.

Hell, maybe you’d just dump him in the communal trash receptacles out back. Leave him there in a human-shaped bag for the garbage men to come and squint at before hauling away like junk.

…Because he is junk, right? No different than a crumb on the floor, you’d once said.

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

The section of your brain responsible for caring must’ve shut off, though, because it’s currently hard to feel much of anything.

…But there, like a soft stirring (or the voice of God as it whispered to Elijah)- you can sense it. That feeling is reminiscent of a survival instinct, or a watered-down version of it to tired nerves, breathing down the back of your neck where hackles rise—

What are you doing here?

The dream begins to fissure in real-time when Caleb (not-Caleb, you harshly remind yourself) cheerfully patters into the living room where you sit, helpful as ever, and his eye flashes as it settles on you. No different than a camera would.

The food looks delicious, per usual- you’d expect nothing less of your brother or even the robotic copy of him- but as nausea churns in your belly and you jolt upright, slapping a hand over your mouth as you run to the bathroom, nothing can save your appetite.

You shakily lock the door- but he’s knocking in an instant, worried.

You always did melt at his bleeding heart. Too often, men, especially the bigger of them, fell under the persuasion of apathy. Yet your gege was always different, always sweet, always gentle and patient and- yeah, okay, sometimes he was a touch mean, teasing to a fault- sometimes to the point of tears on your end as he quickly tried to right his wrongs- but he was preciously yours.

And he was real.

Dammit, he was fucking real-

He was alive and emotionally tangible in a way that this awful fucking hunk of metal is not and never will be—

“Pipsqueak-? Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Let me in. A-Are you not feeling well?” His words crack when you say nothing, dutifully ignoring him.

“Y/n… Let me in. Please-! don’t leave me alone, don’t go.” His voice becomes ragged, raw, the longer you don’t answer. Boyish in its vulnerability. “Stay- Stay here with me.”

By God your soul splinters down the middle. But you don’t answer. You- You can’t.

You throw your lunch up in the toilet and then your back against the wall, sliding down it with your hands over your ears like a child.

You don’t care, if he’s shouting and beating at the door, on the brink of hysteria like you’ve heard only once or twice when he was a boy too soft for his own good- you don’t care- you don’t care—

You sit there until he short-circuits out and thuds to the floor.

You flinch when he does.

Only then, however, do you tiptoe out- careful lest you trigger some internal response from him- to quickly pull on a hoodie and put your hair up, locking the front door behind you.

You don’t know for how long he’ll be conked out, but if luck is on your side, it’ll be for long enough to run to the local corner store and buy a pregnancy test.

You know you’re losing it, the little sanity you had left after your brother passed— misreading a common cold for a veritable child swelling in your womb.

It’s laughable: using your sleeve (another old piece of his clothing you ‘borrowed’, never to be returned) to dot away the tears at your lashline, you do laugh on the short trek to the convenience store.

But if not a reminder that you really are going crazy, losing control, then at least it’s just an opportunity to get some fresh air for a bit, right?

(…You also know that the first step to regaining back said control is to say goodbye to not-Caleb.

As it stands, though, you’re just-

You were never ready.)

✦

Two pink lines.

The thing clatters to the bathroom floor, and you along with it.

You sink to your knees and the white walls surrounding you feel more like an asylum than a space in your own house- because yes, you must be delusional. This is the final nail in the coffin.

But this- this can’t be right. It’s impossible. In the strictest sense of the word it’s impossible!

Heavy feet traipse in the kitchen; the livingroom; the hall, searching for you with faint, candied beckons of your name.

You rub your face as if to feel the color as it seeps from your complexion, and tell yourself that you’ve positively lost it as you thoughtlessly choose one of the corners to slump into, hyperventilating.

You’ll- you’ll send it back to EVER... You’ll send it back and forget and move on. You’ll move on. You’ll stop grieving, you’ll squirrel away your fraying, final memories of Caleb like you did all those precious photos in that old shoebox in your closet.

You’ll-…

A breath. The fan whirs.

The faucet, going full-blast, sputters, effectively drowning out the sounds you make as air becomes a tricky thing to intake; thick enough to choke on.

You’ll throw yourself into the fifth stage of grief then crawl out the other side of it if that’s what it takes to undo this fucking reality you’re lost in-

“Pipsqueak?” A hand on your shoulder.

Broad, big. A little weathered.

But gentle always. Gentle always. Just like you remember. Just like when Caleb meant Caleb; not the big glorified toy that walks and acts like him as an admittedly convincing, yet ultimately faux locum.

Your heart stills, hanging pendant in your chest. You swing from that uncertainty. By God you’d beat that handsome face in- oh, but by God would you kiss it, too.

The door sways on its hinge by splintered fragments, creaking behind the brunet.

Timidly, you lift your head over your shoulder to meet his eye where he towers behind you, violet hues softening with concern. They drift lower, honing in on the little item by your knee, wayward.

He coos immediately, enveloping you in his strong arms.

The feeling- it’s not exactly like that of the one you’d get while swimming in a hot tub, engulfed in its steaming waters, but it’s not too far off either. You let him hold you, unseeing as he all but sings in your ear, and restore the warmth to your bones.

Like a dead thing, or prey, you hang limp in his firm grasp. Terribly uncertain.

“Shh…” he croons, and you only realize a belated moment later that you’re crying. Hard and ugly.

He pets down your hair, ever the comforter, and as you press your head against his barrel chest it’s almost like you can hear a faint whirring in lieu of a heartbeat- speedy but low.

Unreal. Unreal. But then how-?

Perhaps you’ve lost it.

“We’ll figure it out together, honey,” you think it’s a barely concealed smile you register at the crown of your head, pasting down a kiss. “But no more cryin’, okay? I can’t stand to see you like this… Let me draw you a bath, hm? I’ll light some candles and we can talk about it. But don’t be scared. This is… such good news,” and then he laughs- a boyish, marveling little laugh that digs deep into your heart and twists.

The button, between his breastbone, just out of reach, glows faintly through his shirt.

For a moment you’re ready to press it like a player would on a game show— with urgency— but you blink and see those two pink lines searing themselves into your conscience.

Defeatedly, you shut your eyes. But you don’t shut him off.

✦

With Caleb preparing dinner, you’re able to slip away one evening for long enough to call Gran.

For worried friends and relatives, your voicemail box is becoming quite the hotbed- but among them, your grandmother is the priority.

Propping yourself by the sliding glass door, you brush back the curtain and look out to the small, cookie-cutter yard as you accept the call. Not without a shaky breath to prepare you, though; it’s been over a month since your last visit, and while your calls haven’t been quite as behind, you still wince a bit every time her contact pops up.

You want to tell her.

If not about Caleb, then at least the small bump forming beneath your oversized lounge shirt. There’s excuses for it- ones to be frowned upon, yes, but they’d be believable nonetheless. Obviously, a pregnancy is not something as simple to hide as a robot you can turn on and off and, if needed, stuff in the coat closet until the coast is clear.

You want to tell her. But-

You purse your lips, answering, “Hey Gran.”

The tone of her voice, frazzled and barely holding together, sends a chill down your spine.

“Y/n- where have you been? Is everything okay? I’ve been- I’ve been calling all afternoon.”

You digest that information with a quirk of your brow, scanning across the lawn outside, and a thick swallow.

There’s the voicemails, sure; it was only two nights ago you were poring over them all and holding back tears of guilt. But this afternoon? It was quiet- almost blissfully so, spent curled up to Caleb’s chest on the sofa as you watched an old favorite movie and he happily fed you fruit-flavored candies from his hand every so often.

Nobody called, let alone multiple times. You’re sure of it.

“Gran- what? No, I’m fine. What’s wrong?” You start, tossing a nervous glance behind you, internally grateful that Caleb’s absent humming while he chopped veggies was too distant for the phone to pick up.

She blusters out, apropos of nothing, “Is he there with you?”

Something in you stills.

“Y/n- is he there with you?”

An abnormal rush of blood to your ears and a murmur of your heart as you stand confused. The fingers curled around your phone case jitter.

You hold it closer to your ear.

“What? What are you talking about? I-Is who here with me?”

Does she- There’s no fucking chance- does she know?

How?

Chest thumping, your pulse fluttering in the column of your throat as it bobs uncertainly, you begin to wonder to yourself if this is the time you come clean, lay all your sins out like cards on a table. Make the confession.

Push has come to shove, you think. And fuck if you know where all this is coming from on her end, if Gideon told her or she just miraculously put two and two together or-

An exhale on her end, shaking on its way out.

“Were you not told? Dear-“ she broaches, louder, more firm— and this is just milliseconds before the world as you know it- the one you freed of your hands and let reshape itself around a delicate delusion- buckles at the knees. It’s right before you do, too.

“They found him. They found Caleb.”

That breath, right afterward of her telling you, is like the first one after drowning.

Your eyes widen as you break the surface.

His- His body. The tinny footage they dredged up from the area showed he entered his home, but after the explosion, there was no sign of him, no ash no corpse no nothing— So you don’t know how the hell they managed to recover his pieces, let alone after they already ran clean-up crews through the charred infrastructure and hosed it down- but you’re hysterical at the news.

You were cruelly forced, all along, to just assume he’d been burned to nothingness.

So you don’t even care about the how. How it’s possible or how this is happening after several months of white noise and hurting on your end— you don’t care.

You were made to come to terms with his death, and you did, at most, acknowledge it- but evidently, you could never quite accept it.

…If this is your final chance to say goodbye- even if it just means peering over a metal table in the morgue as he lies disheveled, hardly recognizable under a sheet- so fucking be it.

You’ll say goodbye if it kills you.

“What-? Where- where?” Your tone reflects as much, urgent as you stagger over to the sofa, nearly tripping as you reach for the jacket slung over the arm.

“I-Im coming,” you croak out, words failing you as the velvety carpet feels like mud beneath your bare feet- hard to walk across, every step making you feel like a baby taking its first ones.

One second you’re navigating a truth so unbelievable it’s near violent as it barrels into you; in the next, you’re collapsing under the weight of it, too caught up in your own scrambling for your keys and the door to even think of not-Caleb.

Gran goes to timidly say something, but your ears are shot and you quickly interject, “Let me get dressed- I-I’ll be there! Is he at the morgue?”

“Oh, no, honey,” she quavers out, “He’s alive. The town just messaged me; they made a mistake with his death certificate- they’re revoking it as we speak. He’s in Skyhaven.”

The phone drops to the floor.

And then that, too, gives way beneath you.

…It’s good a helping hand is there for you, then. Shouldering your weight without prompting- fretful as he confiscates the device, no different than a teacher with an unruly student, swiftly disconnecting the call.

It tuts in your ear, but- more sober than you’ve ever been- you can only note the sympathy practically dripping from its tone for what it really is: the upshot of its near immaculate programming as it mimics your considerate gege to a T.

Not-Caleb noses against your nape and sighs.

Mutely, you wind a hand, tottering, uncoordinated fingers and all, behind your back to grope along his chest—

He easily gathers both your wrists in his palm, “hey now,” turning you around. He lifts your knuckles up for a chaste kiss, watching you intently all the while.

A cold weight settles over you, soaking you through like meat left overnight to marinate. From the kitchen, stirfry sizzles in the pan. A few moments more of it and the smoke detectors will fire off.

…He just leans in to peck your forehead though, deaf to the sirens you hear wailing in your head, having mastered the art of playing dumb long ago.

He murmurs, as cloying as cake frosting, “C’mon, Pipsqueak, let’s go eat. Dinner’ll be done in just a sec. I made one of your favorites. After that, we can sit around the couch and brainstorm some more names for the baby- what d’you think?”

Flukes, malfunctions, glitches— no; Not-Caleb, you realize right then, ceasing to blink as you stare at its prototype through the shifting lens head-on, was never flawed.

“…But you’re not leavin’, not to him.”

The real one was.

𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, + 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 ♡

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